A Lucky Dog Life

Mercedes Rock & Roll

2011-09-25T13:17:00.000-04:00

Ten Years

2011-09-11T10:48:00.000-04:00

A year ago I penned this remembrance about the tragedy of September 11, 2001. I offer the poem to you again on this tenth year of remembrance. I keep meaning to submit it somewhere for publication but never seem to do it, unsteady in my belief that it merits same. I hope the sentiment touches the readers of this blog and does honor to the fallen.

the 9/11 Memorial

Satisfaction

2011-09-05T13:23:00.003-04:00

Why Boys And Men Get In Trouble

2011-09-03T16:17:00.000-04:00

Jake Davis Test Shots: Shonagh Marshall from Jake Davis on Vimeo.

Raffle For Apple Products (A 503-c Non-profit)

2011-08-28T16:15:00.000-04:00

Well, nothing like a little gamblin' to bring me out of my blog stupor. And, finally my new business position is normalizing. So, back to being a Lucky Dog.

Have I got a deal for you! A group I am associated with, The Rhine Research Center, a 503-c non-profit, is holding a fundraising raffle with winners receiving a variety of Apple products. First Prize is an Apple Mac Airbook.

Tickets are only five bucks each and even if we sell the 5,000 tickets we hope to sell your odds are great at 1/2 of 1%. That beats the Lottery odds and you help a famous and important group continue important research into the human consciousness.

By visiting the Rhine website you can purchase tickets utilizing a credit card or pay pal and your tickets will be scanned to you. Tickets are only five bucks, buy as many as you wish and you don't have to be present to win. The drawing will be held September 17, 2011 in the evening.

While you are on the site buying a bunch of tickets look around a bit. There is much interesting information and I invite you to become involved if even only through the web site.

So, from one Lucky Dog to another I ask that you support this cause. And pass the opportunity on via your blog and your friends.

My extra sensory perception tells me one of my readers will win! Thank you on behalf of The Rhine Research Center. And thank you from the Dog.

Regrets, Big And Small

2011-06-04T10:28:00.000-04:00

Friday the 13th is an ominous day to resign from a firm and join another. But on May 13, 2011 that's just what this Lucky Dog did. I didn't want to. I was and am very proud of my association with my old firm. Yet, it had to be. It had to be.

On my 60th birthday my friends at work wore bow ties, as I often do, in my honor. They drew the line at wearing braces, too...

What a wonderful branch I worked in. Good friends made. I miss them terribly. My solace lies in quantum physics, black holes and time travel: in some other plane of the universe I am still there, happy and excited as the first day seven years ago. Doing well. Yes, doing well.

With that said, my new gig is invigorating and challenging. And comes with a comfortable office, more autonomy and a client associate devoted just to me.

I am a Lucky Dog.

“Before you move on, you have to forgive yourself for your mistakes.”

Smells OK To Me, Wadabout You?

2011-05-26T00:29:00.002-04:00

Jon Langford: Nashville Radio ( A great "New Find")

2011-05-23T08:46:00.001-04:00

As a full-fledged Zevonista, I know there will never be a replacement for the great Warren Zevon. But I am always searching. Recently, I was pleased to be introduced to Jon Langford, quite the artist in more ways than one. Solo artist, painter and involved in a plethora of off and on side projects including:
Waco Brothers Pine Valley Cosmonauts Mekons Jon Langford & Skull Orchard , Jon moves from punk to "hard country" with ease, often carrying the ghost of Hank Williams along for ride.

Langford is a good one to explore.

My New Favorite Sport

2011-05-22T13:05:00.000-04:00

Well, this might be just what the doctor ordered for when I'm older and greyer.

UNC Graduation: Children Swathed In Alexander Julian's Ego

2011-05-08T12:54:00.003-04:00

The Lucky Dog pack will not venture to Chapel Hill today for Mothers Day brunch. We did, however, celebrate Mom last weekend when we enjoyed some classic Crook's Corner brunch; shrimp & grits, Eggs Benedict, pancakes with strawberries and a few Bloody Marys. Plus a side of five dollar fries (worth it).

No way, today. It's UNC Graduation today and the town will be packed, restaurants overloaded and everyone will be a-twitter about the fabulous gowns the children will be wearing.

Those finally "true blue" gowns' inspiration and design are compliments of (gratis, he wants you to know) Alexander Julian, self-proclaimed cloth auteur. The Colour Man. You remember him, I'm sure. He has a son graduating today and Alex couldn't stand the thought of his progeny wearing aqua (!) across the stage rather than UNC True Blue.

You can read about the inspiration at the link above. And you might "enjoy" the homage to the Maurice Julian clan at the Julian's web site. I say "enjoy" because you might agree that Alex's dad Maurice can't be credited with "Preppy Style", as implied. And, I'd be interested to know what "renown Tarheel beauty" Mary was renown for (OK, that's beyond the pale. But I want to know!).

Oh, I've got some great Julian family stories, told to me by reputable menswear professionals or personally experienced. But first, understand this: Maurice Julian, the founder of Julian's in Chapel Hill way back in 1942 was a very--repeat, very--successful business man. He ended up owning a ton of real estate on Chapel Hill's main drag Franklin Street, worth who knows what. Like many successful business owners, how the profits from the cash cow are reinvested tells the real story.

And, of course, son Alex has garnered world-wide acclaim and respect via his Colours line from the late 70's (now available at JC Penny) and his houseware line (Bed, Bath & Beyond) and more. A multi millionaire, no doubt. Talented. Creative. But was he really the designer to "inadvertently became the first American fashion designer to design his own cloth" ?!

Was Maurice the first person to put a penny in a Bass Weejun, as folklore around these parts exclaims?

The Stories...

In my (and Alex's) youth, around fall of '69 (maybe '70), I found myself walking Franklin Street for some reason and came across a store called Alexander's Ambition. The storefront was classic for the time; two big windows on either side parallel to the street with another window angled toward the front door, creating a shaded entry way.

There, in the shade were two fellows. One a red head with a short beard. I remember that he was handsomely dressed. The other a chubby blond boy who immediately struck me as a frat boy stooge for some reason. They were seated, with a small card table between them, playing a board game I'd never seen. I asked about the game. "Backgammon," the red head curtly stated, never looking up from the board. The frat boy snickered. I stood and watched a moment as the fellows quickly moved the pieces after every throw of the dice, seemingly without motive. I was impressed. But by what, I wasn't sure.

I moved toward the door, interested to see what was inside this obviously cool establishment.

"No reason to go inside," the red head said, again never looking up from the board. "You can't afford anything in there."

"Oh, really?" I was not especially well dressed that day, as I remember. But a decent corduroy sport coat, crisp tattersall button down, Levis and Topsiders was not exactly Southern Redneck Poor Boy. Needless to say, the game was postponed and the stooge had to come in with me to make certain nothing was...stolen.

I worked that fat f***er over, touching everything in the store, messing up stacks, tried on a few things that were folded and pinned and generally trashed up the place. The red head finally came in and asked me to leave, "unless you wish to make a purchase." My one and only encounter with the great Alexander Julian.

Remember that my wife's family was in the menswear business in Durham, mere miles from Chapel Hill. I had the honor to be associated with the family business twenty years. That was plenty of time to hear many of stories about the Julians.

Years ago, before our former salesman John came to work at our Durham store, he frequented Julians for his clothing needs. Ol' John was an eclectic sort, never married, by wealth no need to work, had military secret clearance in a former life (he was 50 when he came to us) and he was quite the hand with putting together a good, creative and stylish wardrobe. Frankly, as good at color as... He wore his trousers too short, though. But that was his trademark. Think Fred Astaire.

Anyway, he enjoyed telling the story of Maurice Julian alerting his frat boy salesmen of potential problems with certain articles they might show a fellow frat boy. "MH, MH!", Maurice would signal, as his minion would pull out a sport coat to show. " Moth hole, moth hole!" Old stock. Years old. Colorful. But old.

Both Maurice and our store sold Talbot ties and H. Freeman & Sons clothing, the latter including their custom swatches. Maurice used to call my father-in-law trying to negotiate prices for the custom clothing, wanting to jack up the price. My father-in-law held the retail price; Maurice would say he'd just tell customers he had superior ranges of cloth. OK.

The travelling men had limited respect for the patriarch. The Talbott tie rep was a good example. After two hours plus of reviewing Robert Talbott tie swatches nobody says "I'll pass this season. I don't see anything I like." Except Maurice.

Here's to the UNC grads of 2011. The gowns are fantastic. I'll give Alex that. And perhaps that's the bottom line. But you decide. Thank goodness Alex's son--and Alex-- will not be traumatised by the kid's graduation.

Next Sunday: Brunch in Chapel Hill.

The Martini (via The Economist More Intellegent Life)

2011-05-06T20:28:00.002-04:00

I must admit to never having acquired a taste for this classic drink. May I blame it on never being served a proper one (which, of course, is still my problem, drinking in slovenly places that can't create a superior Martini) or should I simply admit...well, I just rent this stuff, giving it back soon enough and I don't particularly like paying up for getting sloshed?

Now, a Campari with a good vodka and a little tonic (I know, it's usually soda water) plus a lime squeeze served before dinner--I'll spring for that. More than once. Thrice, maybe. Before the red meat arrives.

This short piece about the Martini on the More Intelligent Life site from the publishers of The Economist makes me want to try again to stomach a good dry one. The barware used is certainly elegant. And I like pitted olives. Hell, I even drive to Virginia to buy Pimm's Cup. Oh, I forgot. That's not straight gin but it's well received at Wimbledon and throughout London. And the world. Damn good after a good grass cuttin'.

Anyway, Cheers! It's the weekend.

This One Is For M. Lane

2011-05-03T20:40:00.001-04:00

There's this site, Urban Daddy. You know it, I suspect. If not, sign up. You'll find some interesting info there from time to time, via their daily email update.

And today is M. Lane Day on UD: You'll find information about renting Sinatra's Palm Springs pad--I mean mansion.

Three day minimum; $2,600 per night. When we goin'? This is Bucket List material.

Pippa

2011-04-29T20:53:00.000-04:00

It's not Thursday, but this was delightful.

As I Was Saying B/4 Life Interrupted...

2011-04-24T10:42:00.003-04:00

Days turn in to months when Life interrupts. No, not a major health issue. Although I've felt better. Family problems? Well, not with my wife of 30 years. Work? Ha! All of the above? Exceptin' the wife. Well... does it really matter? And so...

If you have been checking the blog for something new, thank you. If not, here's hoping you find your way back to my Lucky Dog Life.

Here's the deal: It's just a blog. I want to keep current, yet let's not force it. So much to say...so little time. Yes?

You are kind to check it out and I thank you. So, let's get crackin'. Again.

Stars Sans Makeup

2011-03-05T10:50:00.000-05:00

Who Are These People?

OK, I admit this is tacky, rude, unfair, blah, blah, blah. But don't we enjoy it when The Special People are proven... well, normal. From Fox News, no less.

A Day In The Life Of A Financial Advisor

2011-03-03T23:12:00.002-05:00

Give this little animation 6 minutes of your life for a good laugh...

A Wrightsville Beach Sunday Morning

2011-02-27T06:45:00.000-05:00

For the first time in a long while my Red Head and I have sequestered ourselves at the beach for the weekend. Not a big deal for most, but for us, right now, a godsend. The weekend is a brief respite from what's been a tumultuous fall and winter for our family. We've hung tough, together, and we deserved a little time away at our beloved Wrightsville Beach. I can't believe it's been two years since our last visit.

So, I've just a few moments ago slipped out of bed to enjoy the sunrise. We are on the ocean and it will be spectacular. Before the quiet escape I watched for a few minutes my wife sleep, something all men should do once in a while, I think. She too, is spectacular and I say to myself again, as so many times before, "I am a lucky dog". Tumult and all.

My joy at this daily utterance brought to mind someone I call a Friend I've Never Met. He, too, is married to a Redhead--his the blogospere original and an authentic Irish one, we're told. This FINM, as many of you may have figured, is M. Lane of The Epic. He curates as fine a blog as one will find. And he's no doubt a fine gentleman.

His family is having a tumultuous time as well, as you will see when you read this recent post. So, here I am at the beach, basking in the warm endless glow of my red head and he is there-wherever that is-with his IRH next to him, or perhaps he's pacing the floor, coffee cup in hand, anxiously waiting for the next visit. I pray the former.

As I watch the sunrise I am struck by a sense of both helplessness and hope. M. Lane knows that sweet and sour vibe, no doubt. I reach out to that which is responsible for such a beautiful expression of a New Day, ask for renewed courage and faith and pray for good outcomes for the both of us-me and my FINM- and for blessings upon our beloved wives, especially his IRH, their Future Rock Star, our Hip-Hop artist and our Uber-Child. And all God's children.

It is a New Day. It is wondrous. We have hope. The tumult will pass and leave us stronger, closer, and more thankful than ever for our lucky dog lives.

God bless us, every one.

Berkshire Hathaway's Regular Guy Sends A letter To The Shareholders

2011-02-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

Good ol' Boy

Warren Buffet's letter to shareholders is something I look forward to each year. It's available to read as of today. There are some great insights to be gleaned from his conversational narrative of the Berkshire year and what's likely to come. Learn from The Master, I guess. It's a very enjoyable read.

His folksy ways are part of a well established persona, of course. And, while it's true he lives in the same home in Omaha that he purchased "pre-uber-wealth", I don't believe for a second that he and ol' Charlie Munger don't do a hell of a lot more due diligence when buying a company than the WB myth portrays. Just on a handshake my arse.

Along with the Mary Meeker tome previewed in yesterday's post, I've got my weekend reading all lined up.

USA, Inc.: A Basic Summary Of America's Financial Statements

2011-02-25T19:50:00.000-05:00

Mary Meeker

Kliner-Perkins' Mary Meeker has released what looks to be a must read for every American; those who believe we can continue to spend, as a nation, the way we are spending now (and have for many, many decades), those who know we can't but may not fully grasp the consequences and especially every limber-dicked politician at any level.
It's a "USA as corporation" review of our nation. Can you say "General Motors?"

This is a 266 page PDF and I admit to not yet reading it. Yet, a quick review of the bullet points from the Business Insider web site where I found it and the table of contents, it's evident this will be a good read and has the potential to be a seminal work.

Read it, and if it is as dramatic a work as I think it will be, then send it to all of your state's limber-dicked solons.

PW

2011-02-19T10:15:00.003-05:00

Subscriptions are free, sort of...

Thursday. Late.

2011-02-03T22:32:00.018-05:00

He works downtown in the District. She spends her time midtown in one of those trendy fashion boutiques--the second story kind. They met while drinking with friends one Thursday night late at Whiskey Blue. You know, the bar in W New York. Lex at 49th.

They were standing near each other, but on the outer rim of their individual party circles. Maybe five yards apart. And even though the place was jammed, their eyes met. Her tongue licked her lips before she threw back her Campari, pushing the empty glass into a girlfriend's hand. He involuntarily cleared his throat and ran his fingers though his longish hair before taking a sip of his Martini. Slowly, they worked their way closer as their friends chatted away.

When they were face to face no words were spoken before she took his Martini from him, pulled out the stabbed olive, drank it down and then offered up the olive by its red plastic sword to his mouth. He opened, showing perfect white teeth, and took it in. Then she spoke: "Buy us another Martini, will you?"

"Yes, of course," he said, as a tentative smile crossed his face and he started toward the bar. A good ten minutes later he worked his way back toward where he had left the beautiful young woman. Like a Lab with a tennis ball tightly mouthed, he held two Martinis. Both with double olives.

He did not see her, could not spot her. He waited, wondering if maybe the lady's lounge had a line. Time froze until she appeared. She was arm in arm with a tall, well dressed man of their age. He wondered why he felt a twinge of jealousy. "This is Bill. He kept me company while you were at the bar. And for such a long time you were gone," she pouted. The Lab felt the prickly heat of not knowing what to say or do.

"Alright," she said to Bill. "Leave us now, will you? I have a Martini to drink with this beautiful man." They kissed quickly; Bill playfully licked her nose, winked at the Lab and departed.

The next morning there would be no memory of the conversation as they drank together, surrounded by the hoard of young, hip New Yorkers. He would, however, vividly recall how she dropped the empty Martini glass and put her head on his chest, pressed her body tightly to his and raised a hand to his face and looked up to him. "Walk me home, will you? It's only a few blocks. I shouldn't go alone, I think."

"Yes, of course."

New York small and with a Murphy bed, her one room plus small kitchen place was well appointed. Lots of black, including what struck him as an elegant, modern black leather couch too grand for the space. An extravagance for her, no doubt.

She hung their coats, walked to him and again raised her hand softly to his face. She smiled, looking him in the eye. She sighed softly toward him and then moved toward the leather couch. She lost one high heel as she settled her knees on the leather and posed upright.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the small room, watching her watch him. He struggled with her persona. She was so beautiful and visually so... So innocent? But there was an edge to her, to be sure.

She steadied herself and pulled up her black satin skirt on one side. Her stare softened yet she still focused directly on his eyes. He remained rigid and unsure. Just before she popped the first garter she hiccuped, softly, childishly. It was an endearing moment. She sighed a soft "ooh".

"What are you doing?" He regretted the question as soon as it was asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she asked. "Come over here and help me, will you?"

He moved to her and his hands touched the cold leather as he knelt to help her. She smiled down toward him and hiccuped softly again. "Ooh..."

"We can stay here on the couch. Be nice, will you?"

"Yes, of course. I will."

WTF! Oh,Sarah We Hardly Knew Ye

2011-01-30T12:51:00.000-05:00

While I embrace many of the political beliefs of the Tea Party, absolutely respect the "common" man's right to be heard--as I am a common Lucky Dog-- and don't exactly think he (and she) is being well represented by either party (and it's doubtful the TP will do any better), Sarah Palin is starting to get on my nerves.

I respect her views and believe she believes her commentary and place on the American political stage is in the best interest of the country. And yet...

She's good to look at; maybe a boy's most coveted MILF. But the ankles are too thick. She is smart, but lots of fools are smart. There's nothing quite as titillating or alluring as an attractive and outspoken woman, yet I wouldn't necessarily want that person to run the country. Jane Fonda is titillating and outspoken. So is Susan Sarandon.

That being said, the outrage on the left regarding her WTF moment is over the top in my mind. Actually, I see this episode as quite a subtle play on Mr. Obama's "Win The Future" speech. I mean, WTF, he's lauding the Russians and the Chinese in the State of the Union Speech... I don't want a community activist running the country any more than I want Sarah, Jane or Susan running the country. I don't want me running the country, either.

Aw, hell. I admit it. This whole thing is just an excuse to post a couple of **titilating** pictures. And the final word on Ms. Palin: we'll know she's stupid crazy if she runs for President. If not, she's just another dame goin' with the flow, like most of us would. It's all McCain's fault.

Fair & Balanced. You Decide. Have fun doing that.

Microsoft: Where are they now?

2011-01-28T06:40:00.002-05:00

In 1978 the original Microsoft crew posed for a now-famous photo. It's a rag tag group physically, but oh! that grey matter. The site Business Insider plays the "where are they now" game, updating what's up with the (mostly) super wealthy group. Not a plastic shirt pocket insert anywhere...

Thursday Morning Stretch

2011-01-27T07:04:00.000-05:00

He said: "Do we really have to get out of bed? It's early yet."

She said: "Well, you have to."

Like Beer? Grin On.

2011-01-24T12:00:00.007-05:00

GrinOn Industries

Reynolds Price, Author & Gentleman Of The South

2011-01-23T09:11:00.000-05:00

Reynolds Price has passed away. A great Southern writer--no, a great author who often wrote about the South--leaves behind a wonderful catalogue of novels, poetry and stories. Worth reading. Worth remembering. More about Price's work can be found here. Finally, NPR's Fresh Air offers a remembrance.

In high school I wanted so to write as well as he. Alas, not yet.

(portrait credit)

Thursday, Late

2011-01-20T21:31:00.000-05:00

"Just pull, honey. I'll do the rest."

Martin Luther King Circa 1957

2011-01-17T05:14:00.001-05:00

Martin Luther King

The King Center

King Papers Project

My Name Is Betsy. I'm A Killer.

2011-01-13T23:51:00.010-05:00

American Thinker My Name Is Betsy...

Media Research Center Brokow On Palin

Michael Barone It Won't Stick

Slate Our Alternative Realities The Same As His?

Slate Blood Libel Hypocrite

Huff Po Victims And Impostors

The Atlantic Whup, There It Is... Michael Chabon

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

The Nation The Other Arizona

The Nation Palin Threats Real?

Who Are The Real Hatemongers? All Of Us.

Are "Right Wingers" Creating A Parallel Universe? Or Somebody Else...

You Decide...

A pox on all their houses!

The Kid Can Play

2011-01-08T08:59:00.000-05:00

I wonder how many college coaches know about this new Pete Maravich.

The Realities Of Driving Drunk

2010-12-30T22:15:00.001-05:00

I derive no pleasure in providing you this video. But make your children and loved ones watch it before New Year's Eve. So we'll all have a Happy New Year...

Something more pleasant tomorrow.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-24T05:00:00.001-05:00

The Best Eight Minutes Of Christmas

2010-12-23T06:00:00.035-05:00

Although the boys are (physically) grown and Santa bypasses The Dog Pound now, (but there are gifts!) there are still many Christmas traditions our family keeps. Many are video and food related--I guess that's not unusual.

We just have to re-visit Ralphie in A Christmas Story. It's not Christmas without sausage balls and some awesome Kringle. And there's my cottage bacon--a new tradition. It's "mandatory" that all four of us are present for choosing and decorating the tree. And, each year's Christmas tree is officially "the most beautiful Christmas tree we've ever had."

There are many others, and I'm sure there are many in your family. Yet the one that always stands out for me is the last thing we do on Christmas Eve before turning in. We watch a couple of short videos. Old videos that I remember from my youth. We found them over time from catalogues and even eBay.

The Wife loves the I Love Lucy Christmas Episode. And there's this surrealistic Santa Meets The Fairy Snow Queen deal that as children the boys thought was cool. Santa seemed so...so magical. Yeah, right. That one is so over the top from the '50s that I'd swear it was produced by the California porn trade on a slow day. Now, at 19 and 21 the boys agree. Now we watch it for a laugh. This may be the worst 14 minutes of Christmas.

And then, there is the old 1936 cartoon Christmas Comes But Once A Year. It's on that Rudolph VHS you see in the picture that the puppies have feasted on at some point. This is the last thing we watch before bed. It brings us back to the world's realities. It reminds us how blessed we are. It reminds me that I am a Lucky Dog.

To me, watching Christmas Comes But Once A Year is the best eight minutes of Christmas. Watch, and let me know what you think.

As Tiny Tim said, "God bless us, every one."

Dear Santa...

2010-12-21T06:00:00.001-05:00

Oh, sir...I know you are not responsible for my decision to turn in the BMW at lease end and buy two new Hondas. An Accord for The Wife and a CR-V for me. Yes, it's true that I am getting used to the change. I do like sitting up high and the CR-V is easier for an old geezer to enter and exit (I'm old physically, of course...in my heart and mind I'm still rockin').

The Dog's CR-V
An Urban Titanium 4WD unit

Nick, I have had to make some adjustments, of course; the most dramatic being the recalibration of when and when not to pull out on to Garrett Road from our residential street. Pulling out on Garrett Road during morning rush hour is a challenge and possibly deadly adventure even utilizing a twin turbo for velocity. Traffic at 60 mph in a 45 zone is a bitch. Especially when powered by a Honda lawnmower engine. That first time was dramatic!

Anyway Santa, it's not your problem but once everyone else is taken care of, if you've a mind, you certainly can surprise my ass off by plunking down one of the fine automotive specimens below in the driveway on Christmas. I swear I'll give the Accord to charity if you do. To be clear, sir: the Accord. The Wife really wants the CR-V.

In a perfect world the Porsche would be a first choice. And I'm diggin' the two door Bimmer at the bottom. Or thatM3... And really, now that I think of it, I doubt I could get my butt in the Lotus. But hey, beggars can't be choosers. And I like surprises, soI'm leaving the choice in your good hands.

Have a good trip, St. Dude. And one more thing: if this drivel doesn't compel you to act extravagently on my behalf, a good set of all weather mats for the CR-V would be nice. In black, please.

I'd never have to start the thing to feel really, really good.

Like a beautiful Italian woman,
the back side of the Maserati looks awesome.

Very likely the Lotus is butt-challenged
and low on head room...
But oh, that stilletto shape!

A great super car, but that snout...

A Mercedes for when I'm takin'

my posse out to

The Italian Olive Garden...

...and this Kraut Kruiser

for taking The Wife

to Magnolia Grill

(sigh...)

Uberspunk

2010-12-19T06:00:00.002-05:00

My youngest son is searching for his place in life, commiserating on a life's work that allows for more than a little adventure, physical stimulus and enough embedded machismo to bleed off his excess testosterone, which I believe can be a significant hazard in a young man's life.

Swirling around in his head are such endeavors as UFC fighter, repo man (nights) and process server (days) and Humboldt County farmer. Or head shop owner. Personally, I think he should go to acting school and become his generation's Steve McQueen.

In many ways I admire his "my way or the highway" mentality, while praying that he comes to terms with the possible outcomes of what I call his uberspunk. If I was his 20-something Best Bud I would share this video with him. But I'm not, so he will never see it.

God, I love that boy...

Merry Christmas From The Family

2010-12-18T06:00:00.002-05:00

The more you listen, the more you'll understand...

On My Christmas List

2010-12-17T07:02:00.001-05:00

From Japan Trend Shop and only $26 bucks for a fun, funky Christmas present. You gotta love it...

Inner Peace: It's Easy

2010-12-12T11:44:00.000-05:00

I am passing this advice on to you because it definitely works, and we could all use a little more calmness in our lives, especially at Christmas.

By following this simple advice heard recently on the Dr. Phil show, you too can find inner peace. Dr Phil proclaimed, "The way to achieve inner peace is to finish all the things you have started and have never finished."

So, I looked around my house this morning before the family awoke to inventory all the things I've started and hadn't finished, thinking the inner peace would serve me well later today when I go on my Christmas shopping expedition.

After a thourough inventory of "The Unfinished", I finished off a bottle of White Zinfandel, a bottle Tequila, a package of Oreos, the remainder of my old Prozac prescription, the rest of the cheesecake we made Saturday, and some Doritos. Also, I cooked up and ate the opened bacon in the fridge, chasing it with the half bottle of Rebel Yell bourbon I found hiding behind the wine bottles in the bar. I wondered what happened to that Yell.

You have no idea how freaking good I feel right now. Pass this on to those who you think might be in need of inner peace.

The General And The King (And a Christmas Lesson)

2010-12-11T04:29:00.013-05:00

I am very remiss for not noting the deaths of two very talented artists earlier in the year. Great musicians are passing faster than I can write about them.

Yet, based on my remembering something Solomon Burke said a long time ago, perhaps this is when this appreciation is meant to be posted. Now, closer to Christmas.

On October 10th Solomon Burke, self-proclaimed King of Soul, died in Amsterdam at 70 of natural causes. He was there to perform.

On October 13th Norman "General" Johnson passed away at his home at the age of 69. He had been fighting lung cancer. The General may be unknown to some of you, even though he wrote and performed many well known and revered rock/soul classics. In the US south he was--and is-- a music icon. He led the beach music group Th e Show men, well known for songs such as "39-21-40 Shape" (mistakenly printed as "39-21-46" on the 45 label) and many others including as great a seminal anthem to rock & roll as ever recorded: "It Will Stand". More recently (and for decades) the General fronted The Chairmen of the Board.

These deaths touch me for very personal reasons. As a drummer in the soul and beach music group The Four Winds & Band during the late '60s, I've had the pleasure and honor to perform with both men.

The Showmen were great to back up. Back then beach headliners would often not travel with their own bands to save on expenses. The venue would bring in a backup band who would also play sets before and after the headliner's set. All the good regional bands knew the music and a rehearsal wasn't even needed. Just a run through of some behind the back hand signals the General would flash to direct us, like a third base baseball coach.

One night performing with them stands out. We were playing The Jokers Three in Raleigh. A big crowd. I was just a kid, at 17 not even legally old enough to be in the building. Thinking back on it, I may have been the only one on stage not high on something (I learned some great life lessons being "on the road").

The General was in a particularly good mood and there was lots of banter between songs. At one point after a song he stepped closer to me and it scared me to death, thinking he would tell me to tighten it up. Thankfully, instead he said "You got a fast right foot, kid. You're good..." I just about fell of my stool. My signature was "doubling up" on the bass drum. Don't ask. It's complicated. Sort of, anyway.

That was also the night our sax player, more "happy" than usual after the gig, became engrossed with the big, furiously spinning fan on the side of the stage. It was a beautiful rainbow fan, he said, just before sticking his left index finger through the grid, resulting in...well, you don't want to know. It was messy. And saxophone-playing limiting in the future. As I said, I learned some good life lessons travelling with that bunch.

IT WILL STAND

Rock-roll-rock-roll............

You take some music, music
Sweet flowin' music
Some movin' and groovin'
Rock and roll will stand

Take some heart beats drum beats
Finger poppin' and stompin' feet
Little dances that look so neat
You see why it will stand

Some folks don't understand it
That's why they don't demand it
They're out tryin' to ruin
Forgive them for they know not what they're doin'

Don't nick-name it
You might as well claim it
It swept this whole wide land
Rock and roll forever will stand

Hear those sax blowin'
Sharp as lightnin'
Hear those drums beatin'
Loud as thunder

Some folks don't understand it
That's why they don't demand it
They're out tryin' to ruin
Forgive them for they know not what they're doin'

Don't you nick-name it
You might as well claim it
It will be here for ever and ever
Ain't gonna fade
Never no never

It swept this whole wide land
Sinking deep in the heart of man
Come on boy join our clan
Come on boy take my hand
Come on boy be a man
'Cause rock and roll will stand

Let's do it all over again
I feel good let's do it again
It'll be here for ever and ever
Ain't gonna fade
Never, no never...

My one experience with Solomon Burke was much more farcical. We were the band on the one hour Solomon Burke Christmas Special produced for airing on some very dinky UHF TV station in Greensboro. Low. Budget. I don't really remember, but I think this was a paid-by-Burke deal, a religious program, really. Ol' Solomon was preaching back then, too.

But on to the farcical. Mr. Burke was a big star to me and I was mightily impressed when told about the gig. Until the gig played out, anyway. There would be some preachin' and then a little music. And unlike backing up The Showmen, we did not know the music so well. It was ugly. To say the least (but with great respect for his talent) Solomon was not in his element as a TV show preacher/host.

There was a stage for the band, a podium for The King's preaching, a fake Christmas tree a little skimpy on the ornaments, lots of bare concrete wall and a cardboard sign hawking the one sponsor Burke found for the production. It was a local butcher shop (who I'm sure created the sign as it was professionally done in the grocery store motif).

Allow me to cut to the chase: The music was awful because we only had about thirty minutes to rehearse. The preaching was of the Primitive Baptist style. When it came time for the butcher shop commercial, Solomon was so animated ("Good meat, I tell you!") that he kept slapping the masking-taped-to-the-wall sign until it fell off. That startled The King so much that he fell back into the fake Christmas tree, knocking it and him to the ground. The cameras--I mean the camera--was rolling. There were no "cut!" do-overs in this production.

He rallied gallantly, gently rising and reminding anyone who might ever watch (ha!) that it wasn't about him, or the sign or the fallen tree. "It's about Christ the King, our Saviour!" he rejoiced. And then all was good. Solomon got an audible "Amen" from the camera man. The next song sounded so much sweeter.

It was a crazy day. Not one of The King's finest. That day takes nothing away from his great talent, and I am proud to be able to say I played with The King--the great Solomon Burke, however unorthodox the event.

Rock & Roll. It Will Stand. Can I Get An Amen...

R.I.P. General Johnson and Solomon Burke

The Mother Of All Arguments, At Christmas No Less

2010-12-07T05:41:00.015-05:00

The Wife's college supper club Christmas party was over the weekend. It's a good group and we enjoy the event. Both sexes have one of those gift exchanges where you can "steal" someone else's gift or choose from the unopened ones. It's great fun unless your gift is the one that keeps getting handed over for a "better" one. I usually gift some eclectic CD and pass on the cigars, which finally are loosing favor as a gift to bring.

The event does bring back some bad memories. In fact, the Christmas party opens anew each year a "wound" that I will never let The Wife forget. As you know if you frequent this blog(and thank you for that!) I am a huge fan of the late Warren Zevon. If you are familiar with only his hit Werewolves of London you are depriving yourself of some wonderfully written and executed Americana rock music and many a touching ballad.

Warren Zevon was a true song smith and penned such well know hits as Carmelita, Hasten Down the Wind, Poor, Poor Pitiful Me and the lesser known Lawyers, Guns and Money (my favorite) which begins....

"I went home with the waitress, like I always do
How was I to know she was with the Russians, too

"I was gambling in Havana,
And I took a little risk
Send Lawyers, Guns and Money
Dad, get me out of this"

The song, and specifically those last two lines are my cell ring tone and it's a hoot when it goes off around people, who seem to enjoy it. It is not a hoot, however, when the phone goes off while meeting with a prospective older client with no sense of humor, as once happened. Oh, well. It's not so great when it goes off in traffic court, either. The judge was the only one not amused. I pleaded guilty, which I had not intended to do.

Several years ago Warren came to Chapel Hill's Cat's Cradle for a solo gig. I didn't know about it. Somehow I missed it even though I often troll the Internet sites of the local music halls looking for who's coming to town. She--The Wife-- did know about it, as she's fond of reading The Independent cover to cover.

But she didn't tell me. Because the supper club Christmas party was that same December Saturday night.

As someone who also likes to read The Independent (but unfortunately, not on a timely basis in this case) I saw the ad the following Tuesday.

"Damn!", I hollered, so belligerently that the beer can flew right off the side table as I jumped up.

"What's the matter, Honey!?" She's so sweet...

"I missed Zevon! He was at the Cradle!"

Silence on the other end. My ESP kicked in and I immediately knew...she knew.

"Did you know?"

Silence.

"You Knew!"

She walked in to the den and just stood there, head down but with a furtive look toward me. And, like the father accusing the mother in the great movie A Christmas Story of purposefully breaking the infamous leg lamp, I quietly yet angrily muttered "You...knew!"

"I knew you wouldn't go to the supper club party if I told you. It was on the same night..."

And then ensued the Mother of All Arguments. I slept on the couch three nights, barely spoke to her and when we passed as we made our way around the house I continued to mutter "You...knew."

The anger passed, of course. But I mark that episode as our worst argument ever in 30 years of marriage. I will never let her forget that. I know; I should let it go. I don't bring it up often but the music in the car on the way to the supper club Christmas party is and will always be Warren Zevon's Greatest Hits.

She Knows What You're Re-Gifting

2010-11-28T08:51:00.006-05:00

A pal sent this along to me yesterday and I've probably tried it a hundred times. I'm posting this in the spirit of sharing one's new-found addictions--in this case, attempting to trip up a computer (or something) with far superior skills than me. The only time I seem to beat this I realize I'm looking at the original number and not the resulting number after the math. So I look at the resulting number and damn...

How is this done?! Please. Somebody tell me how this works. I know I'll feel stupid, but what's new...

Thank You, Vets!

2010-11-11T07:00:00.002-05:00

Sarah Jarosz

2010-11-08T07:30:00.002-05:00

Watch the full episode. See more Austin City Limits.

Did I Mention My Son Is A Rap Artist?

2010-11-07T12:34:00.005-05:00

Wisdom From A Civil Servant

2010-11-06T09:10:00.005-04:00

"Well you see, Norm, it's like this . . . A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo; and when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers."

Tush Hieroglyphics (Send Yours In)

2010-11-04T00:00:00.019-04:00

(_ ^_)
sore ass

{_~~0~~_}
swishy ass

(_XXX!_)
kiss my ass

(_nO_)
leave my ass alone

(_zzz_)
tired ass

(_E=mc2_)
smart ass

(_$_)
money coming out of his ass

(_?_)
dumb ass

(_(real)_)
ass hole

(_*_)
tight ass

(_%_)
ass wipe

(_ =:^0 _)
ass face

)_ ? _(
bass ackwards

(_4Q_)
bad ass

(_''''o''''_)
hairy ass

( __(!)__)
big ass

(_-->O_)
ass hole buddy

(_"kick o-->"_)
kick ass

( ___=O=___ )
lard ass

(_(A+)_)
great ass

(_(10!)_)

perfect ass

(_nothing_)
lazy ass

( __!O?__)
^ >
^ >
^ >
jump your ass

(_Ouch!_)
smack your ass

(_>>>>O<<<<_)
shove it up your ass

(_09_)

asinine

(_mia =o= culpa_)

sorry ass

Boo

2010-10-31T08:27:00.001-04:00

A NY Subway Thursday

2010-10-27T19:47:00.014-04:00

He rides this route five days a week. And often seven. From Lex at 57th downtown to the Bowling Green stop. He pats the bull on the head every morning. And on a bad market day or when he's sliding home late and half in the bag, he'll sneak up on the bull from behind and kick that bovine in the balls. It hurts, but he does it time and again.

There's this girl, or woman I should say, that takes up the ride a few stops later. Not every day, but most. He thinks she is beautiful. He is correct. And that body. Oh, that body.

Her style of dress tells him she doesn't work in a "traditional" job. Provocative in many ways, her style matches her natural physical gifts, he believes. He wonders what fills up her day. He is afraid to ask.

As possible he tries to stand near her, slowly moving around the standing room subway mob. Working through the mob so he can get a glimpse of her, focus on her angle face before he slides down her body, admiring her moderate breasts, often sheathed tightly and other times covered loosely in silk. On to her midriff, in summer often exposed and showing a navel piercing. Why do people do that, he wonders. In full-on winter he only gets to appreciate her seemingly endless supply of eclectic coats. And that beautiful face. She's partial to a tight pea coat. Purple. Worn with a bright green scarf tied wildly.

He prides himself in not being an ass man or a tit man or some other body part man. He fancies himself as a total package man; he appreciates the whole of a woman, her symmetry, her full aesthetic. But oh, her buttocks--her wonderfully formed ass. When she adorns herself in tight jeans or skirt. Or better yet, something stretchy like spandex.

He remembers a certain day painfully. And ruefully. This day he wore his best blue chalk stripe suit and sported a fresh haircut. Manicured nails but no top coat. A beautiful woven tie. Crisp white English spread shirt. Cap toes. It was the day he decided to approach her. He would jump out when she did, a few stops before his. He'd never felt this nervous or exhilarated.

As they departed the subway car he almost lost her. When he caught up, somewhat breathless, he approached her from behind. "Excuse me...Miss..." She turned her head, startled and continued walking, her gate widening.

"Beat it, Ass Hole!"

He stopped in his tracks as she strode quickly onward. She did not hear his apology. "I'm sorry I startled you, I just wanted to introduce..."

It was a long, painful walk to the Bowling Green Bull. He thought of how the encounter might have gone if he was back in his small South Carolina home town and they were getting off the bus to downtown. He believed she would have stopped, he could introduce himself and they could have a conversation. Maybe make plans for coffee."New York," he muttered.

As he arrived at Bowling Green Park he patted the bull's head as always, knowing that tonight, fully in the bag, he would kick the hell out of those huge bronze balls.

Giants In Six & Rooting For Josh

2010-10-27T18:46:00.006-04:00

I love me some baseball! And so tonight at 7:30 (just 30 minutes from now!) I will be tuned in to the Fall Classic, America's greatest sports spectacle, the World Season. I'll have my score card, my Buds and a big honkin' bag of Jimbo's Peanuts.

Super Bowl? Nah; been to one and it was boring (well, every time I went for a beer or to give one back somebody scored and I didn't see any of it). NBA? Please... Tennis? Hasn't been worth a damn since Jimmy and Mac. Horse racing? It's three minutes for goodness sakes. Soccer? I mean football. And you think baseball is boring!

My call is Giants in six. Willie Mays, Will Clark, former SF manager Roger Craig (born and raised in My Town), Alvin Dark, Bremley, that skinny kid pitcher with the long hair, The Panda and so many more that makes SF easy to pull for.

But I absolutely will be hoping that Josh Hamilton, from Raleigh, NC and picked by Tampa Bay when her entered the draft (and thus would come up possibly through the Durham Bulls...but then there was that drug problem and meltdown) has a fantastic series and wins the hearts of viewers. His story is a compelling morality tale.

It's 7:35. Gotta go!

Steely Dan, Backup Singers In Red Leather & A New Jazz Find

2010-10-23T16:41:00.018-04:00

Did I mention that Steely Dan is a favorite? Or that I have a thing for red leather? And that I always seem to focus on the female backup singers as much as the star of the show when attending a concert ? I'm working on that with my shrink.

Well, check out the middle backup singer in the Kid Charlemagne video below. Red leather pants and a rock babe attitude. Oh my. You get to enjoy a great song, too.

And then, listen to one of my favorite songs--My Old School, and you get to see Carolyn Leonhart (aka Lyn Leon) again, this time bustin' a midriff belly button thing and a bubble top. What man doesn't like a bubble top? Ya' never know...

Finally, get acquainted with a singer who paddles effortlessly between rock, standards and jazz. Whatever she's wearing, you'll like the music. I think I'm in luv. Check the iPod on the right for some great music.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month

2010-10-02T09:00:00.012-04:00

National Breast Cancer Awareness

Susan G. Korman For The Cure

American Cancer Society

National Breast Cancer Foundation

Save Second Base

If found early, breast cancer can be just a lump in the road.

Make certain your loved ones are educated, being screened

and being proactive about prevention.

Old Friends & Facebook

2010-09-30T22:40:00.028-04:00

I missed the Durham High School Class of 1970 Reunion recently. I was officially a 70's graduate even though I was a bone fide '69er by heart. I graduated in 1970 --it's a a long story and has to do with sex, drugs and Rock 'n Roll. Not much sex and drugs. And more soul than R&R, come to think of it.

There's just something about reunions...I don't go to my college reunions, either. And Good Lord, there has never been a family reunion that included my shadow. I guess I want to be remembered as young and full of spit and vinegar, like James Dean or Elvis. I'm not making that comparison, mind you, but whatever I was it ain't what I am now.

I like remembering the girls beautiful, innocent and pink-cheeked. With tight skirts. And tight sweaters. In their prime. Forever. Willin', but psychologically unable, unless you lived on Orient Street and then all bets were off. How I envied that panache.

One beautiful lass who corresponded with me via FB wrote "Oh, Tommy, the drummer with the Beatle haircut!" Goddamn, I hope that's not all she remembers. My memories of her (of us) are more...cerebral.

And the boys, I want to remember them cruising in pristine GTOs with red line Uniroyals, thanks to Daddy financing the ride. Or in a three speed on the column four-door Plymouth that was more than ten years old, if Momma stayed home and didn't work, too. Or my pal's MG Sprite.

In my dreams these boys wear Madras Gant shirts that would bleed, Scotch grain Weejuns and Corbin pants a little too tight and short in length. An Arnold Palmer alpaca sweater for every day of the week. With color co-ordinated monograms on the collar of a Gant 100% cotton button down. Smooth... Sixty days same as cash at the Young Men's Shop or Van Straaten's. Daddy just needed khakis or one suit and Momma had her house coats. There was a weird pecking order. Still is. What are your kids driving?

Facebook is an interesting phenomenon. I'm beginning to understand that Boomers and even their moms and dads are embracing FB as if it were Tops Drive Inn, The Blue Light or Honey's. If you went to DHS in the late 60's you remember those places. See and be seen. Keep up. Ride around in that GTO. Awesome.

Tell us everything! In detail. Via the world wide web.

I just finally replied to two wonderful people who sent me a FB message some time ago. Back in March I think it was, I was dragged kicking and screaming to the FB sign up page. I don't even remember who it was that browbeat me into signing up, but at the time it seemed like a fun thing to do. "You can re-connect with your high school friends." I can? After forty frickin' years? A little creepy, maybe. But that's just me. And I can't explain why.

Still, I owe a couple of replies. To good, good people. That I admire and remember fondly. I really would like to do the Facebook equivalent of screamin' and shoutin' and signifyin' about just how grand things were/are. But I can't. I don't know why. And why I can blog without that dread is a mystery. Do any of you 69'ers or 70's folks remember Antigue? In the Hi Rocket? Maybe that's why bloggin' doesn't seem as creepy to me as Facebook. I'm a columnist at heart, I guess. An observer of wonderful nows and thens. And tomorrows. Not so much a participant as an observer. At least not now.

So, just please know that now that I've put this blog address "out there", via Facebook--if you land here and read this (whether I've replied to your message or not) I cherish our mutual memories, our collective place in time, our quddity, our essence. High school was a bitter-sweet time for me. Maybe better for you. I hope so. It is what it is.

And this I know: I am nothing without you all. I know that. And I relish in it, every everything, and I absolutely and positively bask in the priviledge of knowing you, being some small part of your life, "back when" and in being remembered by you. But I won't be on Facebook anymore.

James With A "J"

2010-09-30T20:26:00.001-04:00

Don't Try To Decipher If Drinking

2010-09-25T12:30:00.003-04:00

A Great Financial/Investment Site (even if the editor is Henry Blodgett)

Thursday Already?

2010-09-23T05:30:00.001-04:00

Remember when, after we made love

You gave me tokens,

Circle-toothed love bites

On my ass and thigh.

Well, they are all gone.

Annon. Duke Student Poet
Early '70s

I'd Like To Meet This Woman...I Think.

2010-09-21T07:34:00.001-04:00

History Of The Middle Finger

2010-09-18T08:51:00.005-04:00

Here's something someone told me while we downed cheap beer and chicken wings in a local bar. Now that I know it, I feel compelled to send it on to my intelligent friends in the Blogosphere.

Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French, anticipating victory over the English, proposed to cut off the middle finger of all captured English soldiers. Without the middle finger it would be impossible to draw the renowned English longbow and therefore they would be incapable of fighting in the future. This famous English longbow was made of the native English Yew tree, and the act of drawing the longbow was known as "plucking the yew".

The English defeated France and began mocking the French by waving their middle fingers at the defeated French, saying, "See, we can still pluck yew!" Since 'pluck yew' is rather difficult to say, the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodentals fricative 'F', (don't ask me; I have no idea) and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute. It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as 'giving the bird.'

I have no idea if this is true, but I like the picture. So pluck it.

Another Thursday

2010-09-16T00:02:00.003-04:00

For him it was a dark passage which led to ... nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

Ernest Hemingway
For Whom the Bell Tolls

Nine One One

2010-09-11T10:32:00.023-04:00

On a beautiful, crisp early fall morning,
In a place where if you can make it there
You can make it anywhere,
Hate melted steel.
And flesh.

Hate evaporated dreams.
Eliminated the future.
Negated the beautiful baby that could have been
And wasted the wondrous gift of potential of those already born.

On that glorious day, full of promise
And anticipation for a thrilling rush of action and adventure that only the Center of the World could offer,
The thrill was not
Getting cross town in one piece, on the cheap.
The action was not
Closing the deal,
Trading the market for prop desk pennies, or
Finally winning three card Monte.
Adventure was not
Buying a Rolex in front of Macys or
The forty dollar burger at 21, expensed,
Nor a perfectly tailored suit at Paul Stuart.
Not even scoring a perfectly laced bit of heroin
Or arranging a tryst at The Plaza.

No,
The thrill became a frantic call for instructions on how to save your life.
Stay put. Help is coming.
But only from the grace of God
Who holds out the promise of eternal life.
The reality was a swan dive from the 40th floor after a cell phone goodbye.
Or burn to death.
The rush was a Pompeii ash-covered dash across a bridge,
Away from the collapse of Humanity.
The action was choosing to climb the stairs with your air tank and hose.
Or not.

In a blue lagoon sky at 30,000 feet the All-American form of valor and resolve
Steeled to meet the hate straight up and take it down,
With forearms shielding off the slash of box cutters in the rush,
Lest there be one more petulant explosive purge
Of religious rage, where unknown.
Take the hit for the nation.
One Nation, under God,
With Liberty and Justice for all.

Let’s roll, one said—
An ordinary fellow, ordinary no longer
And extraordinary into eternity,
Who would stand as Man of the Year,
A symbolic proxy
For all his ordinary fellow passengers and crew,
Whether Time said so
Or not.

And so a hallowed, sacred, scarred field
Was formed to forever celebrate
The memory of untrained, unarmed warriors
Who blunted hate with no more than
Resolve, reached through the innate understanding that
This cannot stand
And bravery born in part to the resignation of approaching death.

All this, while in a five-sided bunker dedicated to war, peace and security—
In what order no one remembers,
The unambiguous symbol for America’s military might is targeted perfectly by
Someone who never learned to land an airplane—
Just how to fly it,
As what was to become another missile
Buzzes the Interstate, providing motorists
A brief yet brilliant 3-D shot of the red, silver and blue weapon,
Maybe looking like red, white and blue in all of its speed,
Thus, creating a seminal personal horror
To pass down through their generations.

And inside the bunker the management of might is in progress.
Young Marines stand guard in elegant dress blues with red-striped trousers,
Uniforms that are too beautiful for war.
Middle management military, draped in bland tan
Work quietly and with purpose
While the Generals, decked out in fine-cut olive worsted
And the Admirals, resplendent in blue surge or virgin white,
All weighted down by
Medals of Valor, some won on the backs of young grunts
And some well-deserved,
Are chauffeured in golf carts.

There are civilians there, too;
The Raytheon rep, dignified in tropical weight charcoal,
Although he can no longer button the coat thanks to his entertainment budget.
No match for the young Marines erect in their finery.
The civilian staff wears what they always wear.
It is just another day at The Pentagon.

For all in the bunker, it is the uniform that defines you.
It is a wonder that the young Marines are not in charge.
But today the uniform is meaningless.
All may as well be swathed in feathers and scales.
Because they are all sitting ducks.
Fish in a barrel.

No one stood at attention to portray their indignation
At being before a firing squad.
There was no skirmish between the foes. No hand to hand combat.
No defensive or offensive maneuver.
Just one airplane pretending to be a heat seeking missile.
And then that awful, awful explosion of hate.
The rest is known.

And so,
On a beautiful, crisp early fall morning—
At 8:46 and horribly again at 9:03 to be exact,
In a place where if you can make it there
You can make it anywhere, hate melted steel.
And flesh.

While soon after, from a blue lagoon sky and in a five-sided bunker
The day continued, all this misanthropic mayhem signaling a New Time
And a New Way.

The rest is yet unknown, except that we are at war

Whether Time or anyone else says so

Or not.

LD

The Auto Parts Art of John Corbett

2010-09-09T20:39:00.005-04:00

I have two pals that, to my dismay, spend lots of time sending out emails that...well, that we could do without. Except for the 30 slide Powerpoint of "The Beautiful Women of Europe" and such like.

Too often it's an email of an old joke, a picture from that Wal Mart spoof site that shows all these goofballs shopping, or some "pass this on or else" kind of thing that speaks of the seriousness of cancer, stroke warning signs or support for the troops.

Maybe I should tell these guys about how easy it is to start a blog.

I don't "opt out" because they are distant friends--one retired and one who should know better--and once in a while one of them sends along a real gem. Or a 30 slide Powerpoint of "The Beautiful Women of Europe" and such like.

The Art of John Corbett is one of those gems. I'd plop a picture up top to tempt you further but when a fellow that's good with a blow torch says don't use his pictures without written permission I take him seriously.

From 1948. Nothing Has Changed.

2010-09-02T06:40:00.002-04:00

This 9 minute "cartoon" is worth our time, I'd say.

World Clock

2010-08-24T21:43:00.007-04:00

Poodwaddle.com

It's Thursday Again

2010-08-19T06:58:00.005-04:00

A One-Sided Conversation In LA

"Hello? Oh, hi Jerry. Sure, I can talk. I'm just walking back to the car... No, I can't tonight. Why? Well, as if it's any of your business I've got a date... Not that kind of a date, Jerry. You know I only work for you."

..."If you must know, I met him at the Porsche dealership...Yes, he's young. About my age I guess... No, nothing's wrong with the Porsche. I just take it in once in a while and they check the air pressure in the tires for me. They don't seem to mind and it's funny watching all the guys scrambling to get to me first with their tire gauge thingies... OK Jerry, I know I'm a tease--what's new about that?"

"No Jerry, I won't break my date... I don't care how important he is... No... Jerry, I said no... Jerry, I--... I'm hanging up now, Jerry..."

"Wait a minute! It's who?! You're kidding! You. Are. Kidding. Me! What time?... Where?... How long?... Anything special?... Him!? You're kidding... You just broke the spell, Jerry. But OK, I'll take the date. But it better be him, Jerry or when I see you I will break your legs!"

"OK, Jerry. Luv ya, too. Bye."

" I gotta get my nails done!"

Chipper Jones: Baseball Great. Mortal Man.

2010-08-14T18:58:00.004-04:00

It's a superstar nickname. Chipper, as in Chipper Jones. Sort of like Mickey, as in Mickey Mantle. Much more marketable than Larry Wayne Jones. Yet whatever his name, the kid (now 38) can play some baseball. He's considered to be the game's third best switch hitter. Behind fellows named Mickey Mantle and Eddy Murray.

He tore his ACL just the other day, for the second time in his career. Unfortunate, for many reasons. He is out for the rest of the season as his Atlanta Braves are two games up in the NL East. It's manager Bobby Cox's last season and a championship--even if only a divisional championship would have some real karma attached to it.

Unfortunate, because Larry Wayne Jones may have played his last game. During Spring Training Chipper made it clear that if his contribution to the team and his ability to play MLB-calibre ball were not up to his personal standards he would retire.

Today he will undergo surgery. At a press conference yesterday he expressed his intention to rehab and be ready for Spring Training. "I don't want to go out this way," he said. Chipper also expressed frustration that he's going to sit out the Pennant Race and that the Braves were on the verge of "doing something very special," an obvious reference to wanting Cox (and Larry) to go out on top with a championship.

His voice trailed off, in what I take as genuine, deep regret that even if his team goes all the way, he won't be running off the field to hug the crusty Cox--his manager for the great majority of his professional career-- then lock eyes and say, without uttering a word, "we did it for you, Bobby."

I don't think he'll come back. I don't think he would have played this year if it wasn't for the fact that it's Bobby's last year and there was just enough buzz about the Braves being legit contenders to go all the way. Going out with Cox as World Champions would be a story book ending to a great career.

I've met Chipper Jones twice, although the meetings were so impersonal it's almost a stretch to say we met at all. We did shake hands, anyway. The first meeting was when Chipper opened the 1992 season with the Durham Bulls. The Bulls always have a "meet the Bulls" party and that year it was held in a hotel bar. As I'm baseball-centric, I wanted my first son (a little shy of 4 years old, for goodness sake) to meet the already baseball-famous Chipper.

The bar was expansive, and at the time the "in" pick-up and after work place. When we arrived at the appointed time the place was already packed. With as many young women as bona fide Bulls fans. Not that women can't be fans, mind you...

The place was dark, there was no formal program and the players were seated throughout the bar. If one wanted to "meet the Bulls" you better know what they look like! So, since the only player that I even vaguely could recognize (and the only one I really cared about meeting) was Chipper, the plan was find Chipper, talk to Chipper, get picture with Chipper, autograph from Chipper and get the hell out.

We found him hunkered down at one of those built-in half round deals that you have to slide in and out of (is that called banquet seating?). Chipper was just off the middle of the curve, surrounded by four other players. A tight fit. Protected, one might say. So I swallow hard, adjust the son in my arms so I can quickly get out a NL baseball stuffed in the diaper bag (!) and walk up to the table. They all just look at me, blankly.

I look at the white kid at the table. "Chipper Jones?" I ask. He points to the good looking Latin guy next to him and the table explodes in laughter. I think we are the first to find him. I smile nervously and continue to look toward Chipper. "Well, welcome to Durham. All of you. I'm looking forward to watching you guys play, but I hope you don't have to stay here too long. The Show beckons."

Chipper's bored, awkward, out of his element facial expression warmed at that. He smiled briefly, said "Thanks" as the others at the table mumbled some response to to my expressed hope. All accepted my comment as genuine, and they warmed up a little, slightly embarrassed that they had a good laughed at my expense--someone who seemed to respect their talents.

The Latin guy pointed to my son, still up in my arms and wearing a Bulls cap and asked "whose the player? That your son?" So there were "introductions" all 'round, I apologized for not knowing the others and asked Chipper for an autograph...for my son. That got a laugh. He obliged with his trademark "Chipper J", the o-n-e-s one long ink line.

The Latin said "take a picture Chipper, he's got a camera." So Chipper Jones took our picture, then I got one with him holding my son. There were handshakes all around, profuse thanks on my part and we got the hell out. I was ecstatic, to say the least. Chipper was on his way to becoming the family's favorite baseball player (along with Will Clark, but that's another story).

That season Chipper played 70 games in Durham and we attended as many as possible, usually sitting in the left field bleachers. Because Larry played third. Every time I saw Chipper--including that evening in the dark, expansive bar--I thought of Mickey Mantle. Somehow I sensed something heroic yet flawed in both of them.

At the All-Star break Chipper was promoted. He reached The Show not long after, and a little before my sons grew old enough to want to watch Braves baseball on TBS with me. But soon we enjoyed following Chipper's exploits together, including the World Series Championship in 1995. And the heartbreak of World Series losses to the Blue Jays and Twins.

At our house the question was "is Chipper on tonight", rather than are the Braves on TV.

The second meeting was a few years later at a baseball card show. Chipper was the guest autograph celebrity. Signing for money. Now the boys were old enough to enjoy the experience of meeting Chipper, so we stood in line to get another autograph and to say hello. Chipper was polite but reserved and obviously in a hurry. The line was long. I mentioned the night in Durham a few years ago but he didn't remember. Maybe sort of...

His first wife was with him that day. She was drop dead gorgeous, looked prim and proper and was wearing the biggest diamond engagement ring I've ever seen. It was blinding. Larry must have been blinded too, in some way, when he met that Hooters waitress a few years later that swept him off his feet and bore his first child. The marriage ended, and he did not--as many think--marry the Hootress. I'm sure she gets a big tip each month, though.

Of course we were all disappointed by the news of Chipper's infidelity. One of my sons even shed tears. His hero proved to have flaws. A good life lesson for my son. In case later in life he's ever blinded. As we have all been, however seriously. But Chipper is not the only one, and it wouldn't be news if he were not famous. And if he were not famous the child most likely would have sadly been aborted. It took a while, but we forgave him. Sadly, the Braves are no longer on TBS virtually every night so following Chipper became more limited.

I'm thinking the final letting-go of my personal disappointment in Chipper was listening to that recent press conference in which it was evident to me that he understands how the stars are trying to align this season for the Braves. But he won't be part of it past last week. His star is now out of alignment. Yet he showed his passion and love for the game to me in that interview, so wanting to be part of whatever happens.

I believe he wants to run off the field victorious, and find Bobby Cox to hug more than anything. After all, he has spent his entire MLB career in Atlanta. There was more money elsewhere. And in 2005 Larry Wayne Jones reworked his 90 million dollar contract inked in 2000 and gave back 21 million of that contract so the Braves could afford to bid on some quality free agents entering the market. That's a team player if I've ever seen one. Rouges and "white trash"--as John Rocker once called him--don't do things like that.

But it's not going to happen that way. He won't be running anywhere for a while. And by January, just before Spring Training, Larry Wayne Jones will have come to terms with the fact that Bobby Cox is gone, the Atlanta Braves Karma Season is history no matter happens, the stars will never come close to aligning this way again for him and that he has nothing else to prove. As a baseball player, anyway. I wonder what kind of manager he'd be...

Accomplishments

1st pick overall in the 1990 amateur draft
TSN Rookie of the Year (1995)
5-time All-Star (1996-98, 2000-01)
National League MVP (1999)
2-time Silver Slugger at 3rd Base (1999-2000)
Holds the Major League Record for most consecutive games with an extra-base hit (14, tied with Paul Waner).
8 straight 100 plus RBI seasons (1996-2003)
Most home runs in a season by a National League switch hitter (45 in 1999)
Third most home runs for a switch hitter behind Eddie Murray (504), and Mickey Mantle (536)

Chipper's official website

Investment Rules

2010-07-27T22:06:00.004-04:00

In markets like this one I keep three lists handy and here is one of them; the famous 10 rules of former Merrill Lynch strategist Robert Farrell. Number 8 is especially constructive at the moment.

Bob Farrell’s 10 Rules of Investing

1. Markets tend to return to the mean over time.
2. Excesses in one direction will lead to an opposite excess in the other direction.
3. There are no new eras — excesses are never permanent.
4. Exponential rapidly rising or falling markets usually go further than you think, but they do not correct by going sideways.
5. The public buys the most at the top and the least at the bottom.
6. Fear and greed are stronger than long-term resolve.
7. Markets are strongest when they are broad and weakest when they narrow to a handful of blue-chip names.
8. Bear markets have three stages — sharp down, reflexive rebound and a drawn-out fundamental downtrend.
9. When all the experts and forecasts agree — something else is going to happen.
10. Bull markets are more fun than bear markets.

Folk Art In Eastern North Carolina

2010-07-20T18:25:00.010-04:00

"My knees are wore out." And so he can't climb to oil his works of art. So that they continue to move and spin and delight. Vollis Simpson's folk art whirligigs (this link is a couple of years old) are beloved in Eastern North Carolina and famous with the art crowd throughout America.

His outsider art (an April 2010 NYT story with wonderful photographs) has drawn new attention as the city of Wilson, NC and cultural agencies work to find a new home for his works, where they can be taken care of and enjoyed.

Below is an 8 minute introspective video in the style of those classic CBS Sunday Morning closing video essays.

Meet Vollis in the video below.

Tush Thursday

2010-07-15T02:31:00.003-04:00

A Walk On Muscle Beach

AZ v. US

2010-07-11T12:16:00.017-04:00

The Arizona Law

George Will's View

Most Backers Of AZ Law Support Path To Citizenship

The Boycott

Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund

What Does The Law Actually Do?

Mexico Immigration Law

Can You Name This Car?

2010-07-08T17:36:00.010-04:00

Perhaps the revolution has begun; another brought to fruition by Silicon Valley engineers. High Tech, Beauty and Performance (like all autos should possess) plus Green.

Zero to 60 in 5.6 seconds. Three hundred miles between fill ups (I mean between charges). And zero tailpipe emissions. Zero. Plus, a new way to invest your hard earned money in the market.

About fifty grand. With no gas bill. And you've got to love those blue LED lamps. Not to mention the disappearing door handles.

Available in 2011. But you better sign up now.

I wonder if I can get a white one...with red leather. But I'll miss a throaty exhaust.

Tesla Model S

The San Quentin Giants

2010-07-06T00:07:00.001-04:00

BAD BOYS OF SUMMER is an insightful documentary film from the Angry Young Ranch film group. From their website comes the overview below and how to purchase the DVD.

"Guards with semi-automatic assault rifles pace before the razor wire. Their eyes are trained on the men below: gangbangers, thieves, and murderers who converge on a dusty diamond inside the yard.

"A man who killed his wife stands on the pitcher’s mound. A jailhouse gladiator squats behind the plate. A dope dealer turned preacherman coaches from the dugout. Behind the backstop, the Aryan Brotherhood, the Nuestra Familia and the Crips and Bloods look on.

"This is San Quentin baseball.

"Every spring 24 convicts taste the cool, crisp air of freedom. Not by stepping outside the prison walls, but by putting on a pair of spikes and picking up a glove. And for four months, they're not just inmates they're…ballplayers.

"Bad Boys of Summer is a feature documentary that follows the charismatic coach of the San Quentin Giants through his final season with the prison baseball program, as he tries to change the lives of the men on his team. By peeling back the layers of their dark personal histories, he reveals their inner core as human beings. In the process, he gives a startling new face to our national pastime. "

Article from SF Chronicle

July 4th, 1776

2010-07-04T08:18:00.002-04:00

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The 56 signatures on the Declaration appear in the positions indicated:

Column 1
Georgia:
Button Gwinnett
Lyman Hall
George Walton

Column 2
North Carolina:
William Hooper
Joseph Hewes
John Penn
South Carolina:
Edward Rutledge
Thomas Heyward, Jr.
Thomas Lynch, Jr.
Arthur Middleton

Column 3
Massachusetts:
John Hancock
Maryland:
Samuel Chase
William Paca
Thomas Stone
Charles Carroll of Carrollton
Virginia:
George Wythe
Richard Henry Lee
Thomas Jefferson
Benjamin Harrison
Thomas Nelson, Jr.
Francis Lightfoot Lee
Carter Braxton

Column 4
Pennsylvania:
Robert Morris
Benjamin Rush
Benjamin Franklin
John Morton
George Clymer
James Smith
George Taylor
James Wilson
George Ross
Delaware:
Caesar Rodney
George Read
Thomas McKean

Column 5
New York:
William Floyd
Philip Livingston
Francis Lewis
Lewis Morris
New Jersey:
Richard Stockton
John Witherspoon
Francis Hopkinson
John Hart
Abraham Clark

Column 6
New Hampshire:
Josiah Bartlett
William Whipple
Massachusetts:
Samuel Adams
John Adams
Robert Treat Paine
Elbridge Gerry
Rhode Island:
Stephen Hopkins
William Ellery
Connecticut:
Roger Sherman
Samuel Huntington
William Williams
Oliver Wolcott
New Hampshire:
Matthew Thornton

Tush Thursday

2010-07-01T07:36:00.001-04:00

Bath Time

Little Stevie Wonder

2010-06-22T19:45:00.008-04:00

June 22, 1963 marked the release of Little Stevie Wonder's hit single Fingertips, Pt. 2. This song was Motown's second big record and really put them on the map.

I can assure you youngsters that this record of Stevie's was as fresh and tantalizing and mezmerizing and groundbreaking as The Beatle's first hits.

If It Was My Home

2010-06-18T19:46:00.009-04:00

I haven't seen many (any?) blogosphere posts about the Gulf disaster. We're too busy, I guess, dealing with a red leather fetish or how our front yard looks to the neighbors or if the crease in our pants is crisp enough and if our hankie poofs just so in our breast pocket. And, I suspect we are totally in denial.

This blog world of ours is supposed to be uplifting, upbeat, totally rad and a lot more including fun. There are just so many problems in our lives, in our world, in our country, no matter how much of a Lucky Dog we are. It's easy to become deaf, dumb and blind to other's situations.

I don't know about you, but I am often overwhelmed with the multitude of misery in the world and sometimes I question whether we Homo Sapiens are any smarter than a snake. So, as penance for our blocking out what our brethren in the Gulf region are dealing with, go to the site below and type in your hometown and get an understanding of just how awful this spill is.

If It Was My Home - Visualizing the BP Oil Spill

Red Leather w/ BMW Wrap Around

2010-06-17T19:46:00.011-04:00

There is something about a BMW with red leather interior that revs my motor.

Tush Thursday

2010-06-10T05:37:00.008-04:00

A Brief Thursday Morning Conversation

The sun was beginning to stream through the open window. There was a soft, San Francisco breeze. Carla, the brunette, was dressed in her favorite tight black skirt and top set with a white silk camisole underneath. Her "big meeting outfit", she called it. She loved the way silk felt on her breasts. That sensation kept her sharp and focused while the effect of her erect nipples kept the mogul on the other side of the boardroom table off balance.

Carla applied her lipstick and went over to the bed where Maude, the blonde, lay awaking from a satisfied sleep. Carla bent down and kissed the blonde's bottom. "Beautiful," she mused to herself.

"Maudie, I'm leaving. Don't forget your Brazilian appointment today."

There was silence until the blonde moved slightly and replied in a soft, sleepy-child voice.

"OK... Can I get a pedicure, too?"

"Sure, why not," Carla absentmindedly replied as she rushed out of the bedroom. "Just as long as you get the Brazilian done," she said to herself, smiling.

Duke Snider's Replacement--Both Of Them

2010-06-05T09:15:00.002-04:00

Willie Davis was found dead March 9th. I missed it. He was 69. You would not know the name if not of a certain age and/or a baseball fan. Willie Davis was a great center fielder for my beloved LA Dodgers in the 60's, replacing Duke Snider. The link will extol his baseball virtues. I remember him well, as a teammate to Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, John Roseboro, Maury Wills and others.

So, can you imagine replacing someone like Snider, or Mickey or Ted or Willie? I've had the pleasure to know someone who did replace a beloved star, however briefly.

I found out quite by accident. One would have never thought this small, short, soft-spoken gentleman with a scraggly beard and worn brown teeth from constant pipe smoking could have been athletic at all in his youth. And besides, he was a professor at UNC. There's no professors in baseball...right Tom Hanks?

During a lull waiting for our tailor to finish marking a sport coat for him I happened to mention that my family had season tickets to Durham Bulls baseball and that we were attending that night. Did he like baseball, I asked?

"Oh, yes," he replied in his soft, kind and gentle voice. "I enjoy the game very much. In fact, I played a little organized ball in my youth." His reply seemed so off-handed and without a trace of braggadocio that my first thought was city league softball.

"Ah, what was your position?" I asked. Center field. "And where was this?" I continued with a small-talk tone. "Well, several places but primarily Montreal."

"Montreal?"

"Oh, yes. You see, I was in the Dodger organization and Montreal was--"

"Triple A!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, Triple A," he said calmly with just a proper hint of pride and reminiscence in his voice.

"Did you ever--"

"Make it to the Bigs?" he interrupted. "Oh yes, but just a cup of coffee. I was called up for about two weeks but then the Korean War beckoned and several rounds from a machine gun placement we were trying to eliminate shattered my leg and that was the end of center field and baseball."

"Damn," I said, after a reasonable amount of silence. "I'm sorry..."

"Oh, it's alright. Nothing much would have come of it. I was backing up Duke Snider, you see, and there was another fellow ahead of me on the Dodger bench that was quite a talent."

We finished our business and as he reached the door he paused, turned and took the pipe from his mouth and said: "Oh, I should have mentioned...I hit a homer my only big league at bat!" He smiled mischievously, threw up a little soft salute and he was out the door.

Willie Davis was found dead March 9th. and I missed it. Almost.

Tartan Tuesday, Meet Tush Thursday

2010-06-03T06:01:00.007-04:00

A very interesting blog by Admiral Cod often presents a nice little photo of a lovely young woman dressed or undressed in some form of Tartan Plaid. Not (as ADG @ Maxminimus would say) nekkid, but worthy of admiration. The Admiral calls his (not every) Tuesday post "Tartan Tuesday."

He gets tons of positive comments on Tuesday. And ADG seems to like Tuesdays. A lot. Which got me to thinkin' (trouble)...

A marketing coup from my college days involved bar tending for a new, upstart bar that wanted to attract the college crowd away from the incumbent, the Rainbow Club. As some considered this Lucky Pup a BMOVSC (big man on very small campus), a real rounder named Mack hired me to make that happen. Along with a bumper sticker under dorm door campaign (Mack's Tavern: Somewhere Over The Rainbow) I suggested to Mack that we get their weekly beer stipend before the Rainbow could. Well, The Rainbow had a Wednesday happy hour from 6-12pm. Ok, we'll have Mack's happy hour 12-12 on Tuesday. It worked, and soon Mack and I created a very good following every night.

So, (here's the thinkin' part) as a fledgling blogger searching for readers and followers, maybe I can not usurp The Admiral but rather (and in the blogosphere fraternity spirit--even though I've not been invited to pledge) act in compliment with Cod and humbly provide another shot of eye candy. So, in the Mack's Tavern tradition (here comes the trouble part) Mammary Monday was born! By the brain in my little head. Then, I considered the consequences (W.I.F.E. and others) of thinkin' with the little head instead of the big head and settled on the tamer yet still tantalizing Tush Thursday. The Admiral can be first. I'm sure there will be eye candy stipend left on Thursdays.

Comments from readers will tell the tail--I mean tale and lead me onward or toward scrapping the whole scheme. Somebody tell ADG.

2010-05-31T03:00:00.000-04:00

"It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died.

Rather we should thank God such men lived."

George S. Patton

Iconoclast

2010-05-30T13:43:00.003-04:00

Dennis Hopper

Larry's Boy

2010-05-30T02:43:00.001-04:00

Why We Are Free

2010-05-28T18:47:00.003-04:00

OPERATION GRATITUDE

HISTORY OF MEMORIAL DAY

USA.GOV MEMORIAL DAY

NATIONAL MEMORIAL DAY CONCERT

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETARY

2010-05-22T09:23:00.011-04:00

May I say it? I almost get a boner when I listen to You Can Leave Your Hat On, written by Randy Newman and made infamous by Joe Cocker as the background music for the Kim Bassinger striptease in the movie 9 1/2 Weeks.

There is another more recent song that pushes my button, too. And like Cocker, the artist Carrie Rodriguez is no slouch. Raised in Austin, TX and schooled at Berklee College of Music in Boston, Carrie strikes me as a gifted writer and musician. She has hit the Alt Country & Americana scene full blast over the last few years.

I found Carrie quite by accident, tooling around iTunes. Once I heard the song 50's French Movie I immediately had to hear the snippets of all of her songs. After listening to (and buying) the 2006 release Seven Angels On A Bicycle and the '08 followup She Ain't Me, I added her into the Lucky Dog favorite musician list; not just because of the sexuality of the song (which is undeniable) but because of the the authenticity of her songs, including 50's FM. Rodriguez's music strikes me as akin to that classic human cross between submissive and dominate. Her lyrics and music trampoline between "I know who I am and I know what I want" and "I'm willing to negotiate." I'm no music critic but that's real, authentic and basic. Not give & take. Give & get. Ain't that right..

Kim's lookin' good in that movie but based on what I hear and see from Carrie Rodriguez, she's got more mental meat on the bone and could give me a boner and make me blush. Give & get.

Guess Who Just Turned 30?!

2010-05-21T19:36:00.015-04:00

An ol' pal turned 30 today. Pac-Man. I've spent a lot of time with him, his missus Ms. Pac-Man and all the while always accompanied by another friend, Bud. A few years out of college and still spending a little time at the classic "Tavern" in Chapel Hill, I fell in love with that game. I wouldn't even know of this landmark birthday if I had not Googled something today. The Google Doodle today is a Pac-Man screen that you can actually play (!). Go play.

Once moved to California--in the middle of Silicon Valley to be exact, working in a serious job and thirty, for God's sake--the addiction held strong. There was a neat bar in Palo Alto that had four of those vertical machines. Always busy. There was a sign-up sheet and you had to play against the current winner. Sometimes for the price of a beer, sometimes for the cost of the game, and always for the pride and honor of being a great player.

There were some great players! Human machines that had set routes around the maze, that became enmeshed, like muscle memory, in their brain. They always followed the same route. I've never seen such focus. Remember, virtually every great company in the Valley had/has game rooms for the software writers and Pac-Man ruled, along with Foosball and air hockey. The Pac-Man game was called "eating corn" by the hard core player. "You wanna eat corn for a beer?", someone might ask.

I was over matched with those Geeks (aka millionaires) and I was extremely pleased when Nolan Bushnell, the Atari founder and Godfather of computer games (Pong) opened a "wholesome" little bar and arcade place (actually quite spacious) called Zaps. There the yups played shuffleboard, pool, every new game available, pinball and of course Pac-Man. This was a childish bar in retrospect, where the salesmen and reps of all the various start-ups would congregate on Friday night with their dates after some hot shot dinner somewhere; it was all very non-competitive. It was hard to be balls out with a happy high chilling you out. I could win there.

Zaps didn't last long. Even Nolan's cache and big bucks couldn't keep it cool. Oh well.

Pac-Man hibernated for a long time within my psyche, once in a while exploding out when a console would be found in some odd spot. And then one Christmas when the boys were young, Santa found a $9.95 Pac-Man game that plugged in to the TV, resplendent with the red ball atop the toggle apparatus. That was the big hit that Christmas and the boys played almost all day. Now, as young men they still on occasion will out of the blue pull out that little mini console, plug it into the television and yell out "Hey, Dad. You wanna eat some corn?"

Happy Birthday, old pal. Let's eat a little corn. Maybe one day we can go 256 boards without losing a life like Billy Mitchell did back in '99.

Namco has a great site devoted to the game

Watch This...

2010-05-16T14:55:00.001-04:00

Baseball Is Back! Part II

2010-05-01T09:02:00.004-04:00

Way back in February I posted "Baseball Is Back!" and alluded that my next post would be Part II of my anthem to America's Game and how the sport has been such a wonderful part of my family's life. Well, finally.

Our return to My Town from Silicon Valley in the mid '80s coincided with a resurgence in the popularity of Minor League Baseball all across the nation. In large part fans came back due to the movie Bull Durham, a rollicking baseball and love story centered around the Durham Bulls minor league team. Selling beer at the park (finally) didn't hurt any, either.

Shot in Durham using the team's aging Durham Athletic Park and the city's environs, the movie created a new cache around town for the Bulls and "The DAP." The venerable ballpark certainly became the hot ticket for the 30-something hip locals looking for the next new thing. And the young newbies that were continually moving into the area thanks to the Research Triangle Park and the universities just had to come out, too.

"The DAP" was cool for a hot date or a place to show off your babies. It was a Preppie and a New Age hipster hangout. And the die hard baseball fans, hourly wagers, good ol' country boys--many of whom could play the game as good as any on the field--along with the old timers who had followed the team for years continued to show up like always. Like all of Durham, the ballpark was a social melting pot and everybody got along. Perhaps all was chill because the Preppies and the New Agers tended to congregate in the left field bleachers to drink beer and talk to all the people they came with as a group. And to show off their babies in the cute little Bulls hats.

Die hards only on the right field bleachers. If you went over there don't be yammering about how your MBA courses were messing with your head. Hush up about your start up in the Park. Curb your baby; there's no crying in baseball. And don't complain if the dude in front of you lights up a cig. You just don't complain to certain folks when they break the rules.

Neither group had to contend with the Raleigh interlopers--they bought reserved seats under the cantilevered roof. Until those Raleighites who were Inside The Beltline types figured out they should be out in left field with the party crowd.

The old DAP

BC, (before children) I have fond memories of the left field bleachers, hoisting six or even eight beers up the rickety steps when it was our turn to buy. There was great conversation. And much fun. So great and so fun that we missed a no hitter in progress right before our eyes one Sunday afternoon. But I did watch enough baseball to get the old love back for the game by watching Chipper Jones, Steve Avery, John Rocker, Andrue Jones and many others come through Durham.

AD, (after delivery) we showed off our baby, too. And for both boys, who are three years apart, their first adventures were at "The DAP." They loved it, as did their mother and me. After a while, we moved under the cantilevered roof as we were now a self contained party. The oldest boy and I wore our San Francisco hats. The youngest donned his Pirates hat because his first game while still tethered to mother's milk was Pirates vs. Mudcats in an exhibition game. Barry Bonds played two innings and then signed autographs for a couple more innings.

One of my fondest memories of times at "The DAP" revolve around me and the boys always wearing white bucks to the park when they were little. I would tell them to get their little bucks with the red soles and they would squeal with delight; "It's a baseball day!" they would exclaim. We would always get smiles from other fans because of those bucks. And because of the multi-colored smiles of the boys, thanks to the rainbow ice they always wanted.

1993 at The DAP

I cherish memories of the boys taking turns sitting on my lap during the game. Between sips of beer I would whisper play-by-play into little ears. I'd call the game straight but would use funny and odd names for the visiting team. They loved that, and learned what a "can of corn" is, about the 5-4-3 double play, why sometimes a player would bunt, what tagging up means, the significance of the bases being "full o' Bulls", and taking off their ball caps for the National Anthem. Over time they learned the game's nuances and subtleties. And when they were older, they learned how to make ten bucks last nine innings worth of hot dogs, Cokes and popcorn.

4th visit to see The Chicken
Early on we took the boys and their cousins to see The San Diego Chicken, who back then came to town once a year. It was like Christmas for the children. They were mesmerized by his antics. We bought the dolls, a video, t-shirts--the works. By season's end the boys had memorized all the video antics, had amassed rubber chicken feet, chicken masks and various other costume bits. They would dress up, turn on that tape and act out the whole thing. It was hilarious then and a joy to think about today. Over the years going to "The Chicken game" became a tradition within the tradition of going to the games.

The boys and I enjoyed sending off baseball cards hoping for autographs--and we received some great one. It was always exciting to them when one of our SASEs arrived in the mailbox. They knew not to open till Dad came home, and as soon as I arrived home they would tear into that envelope with great glee. I was as excited as them.

And, of course there was much time spent in the yard, the three of us throwing to each other, although neither boy had the concentration "stamina" to play ball together almost all day like I did as a kid during the summer, mixing grounders, high flies and long toss along with taking turns being the pitcher in make believe games.

When our oldest was six the brand new Durham Bulls Athletic Park (which is called "D-BAP" as its nickname) opened and we continued our pilgrimages to watch baseball, now with good season tickets.

As both boys grew, we watched them play the game in T Ball league, what's left of a little league program, and a year of junior high baseball. One was a right fielder while the other had the toughness, moxie and determination to catch; he loved the armor.

At The DBAP the boys learned to score a baseball game at young ages, thanks to me bribing them with a nickle for a hit, a dime for a double, twenty-five cents for a triple and a buck for a homer while scoring. Amazing how that worked even though they seldom got the money for our mutual forgetfulness. The oldest son is a walking stat machine and can remember more about baseball than I've ever known. His brother is a more casual student of baseball's past, yet the long continuous history of baseball that we all embrace is something he appreciates fully. First year at DBAP

Our family also appreciates the pace of the game. Few do. But their Mom and I have found there can be a lot said between pitches and between innings--about the game and more important topics like how a certain class is going or what's new with the girlfriend and other topics that don't sound so invasive when asked at the game.

Now, suddenly we've had our season tickets at DBAP fifteen years. The boys are growing up. Or, as they would want me to say, they have grown up. The four of us don't make it together to the Bulls as often now, yet the love of the game and the harmonious times together we enjoyed and remember fondly remain as links to one another.

So I was heartened the other day when the boys came in to the kitchen where I was preparing hamburgers to grill and they asked "when are we all going to a Bulls game, Dad?"

Music to my ears. "Take me out to the ballgame..." Oh, if I could whisper play-by-play into little ears just one more time.

The DBAP

Where Would You Like To Have Dinner, Darling?

2010-04-26T19:13:00.001-04:00

Huh? What Did He Say?

2010-04-14T22:04:00.008-04:00

No Representation Without Taxation!

WHO PAYS?

To My Son On His 21st Birthday

2010-04-08T20:05:00.008-04:00

Thos., Happy 21st Birthday, son!

The card with The Wizard Of Oz characters on the front may seem like an odd card for a young man's 21st birthday, yet I think it hits four important points that are essential to a happy, serene and meaningful life--which, at least to me means a successful life.

What I hope your Mother and I have taught you is that an age such as 21 means very little when it comes to what I call "life competence". There are certain attributes and morals that will serve you well should you attain and live by them (and I believe you are on your way, but it's a never-ending life long education to that end).

First, successful and competent adults have "heart" as the Tin Man so much wished to have. A good heart keeps you grounded and appreciative of whatever your station in life, respectful and understanding of others different than you or those needing a helping hand, and resolute in your beliefs. Heart keeps you steady in reaching your goals. You might say "heart" is like having passion for life--being passionate in all you do. And ethical in all you do. Your moral heart will steer you clear of short cuts, work arounds, rationalizations, shoddy work and unfair dealings of any kind. Those with heart take life seriously, realize their time on earth is limited and strive to make the most of the journey for themselves and others. With honor even in loss.

Life takes "courage," a trait the Lion knew he lacked and wanted so badly. Life can be scary and dangerous at times. It can be easy to give up or give in. Your courage will see you through those times. Plus, even in good times there are always serious decisions to be made that take the courage of your convictions. As you marry and start a family your decisions will take on an even more dramatic meaning. Your decisions will affect those you love dearly.

Courage allows one to expand their comfort zone, allows you to embrace change and comforts you when your decisions do not create the expected result. Courage and heart go together hand in hand, usually. It's difficult to be courageous without the passion of your convictions. Without heart there is nothing to be courageous about.

The Scarecrow feared he lacked "brains." Even the most fool hardy, lazy and self centered have innate ability. Yet, few cultivate that ability or use reason and logic as effective tools in their life. So often we live for the moment with no other considerations.

Few use their potential which is a sad, sad waste of what the Good Lord gave us. You must not take your intellect, your reasoning ability and your sensibilities for granted. Nurture and use those tools. Accept that to improve your life means continually learning. Learning takes effort and lazy men who are unwilling to grow mentally are rarely successful, and I don't mean just financially. What I do mean is that when one stops learning their life can often stagnate.

Your knowledge will spark the passion of your heart. Your passion will be tethered by courage. No matter what your bank account says a full life will emerge. You will live such that at your dying breath there will be no regrets.

Oh, and one more thing. For those of us so inclined, a good woman by our side is an important ingredient in our success, whether her name is Dorothy or not. And a good woman likes a man with heart, courage and intellect. Just ask your Mother. (!)

Happy Birthday, son. I love you,
Dad

The Duke Blue Devil

2010-04-03T09:40:00.058-04:00

I grew up a Duke Blue Devil fan growing up in Durham, NC which is the home of Duke University. Not everyone in town was a Duke fan, as the University of NC is just 8 miles away. But me? That Blue Devil mascot was such a pull, along with Sonny Jurgenson, Art Heyman, football coach Bill Murray and his "Lonesome End" offense, and others. But that Blue Devil....cool!

My birthday is in November and when I was young my Father always found a way to "procure" (see the post Memorial Day) good tickets to the Duke vs. Carolina game which was usually played a bit before Thanksgiving.

Oh, it was something I looked forward to every other year when the game was played in Wallace Wade Stadium. Back then, Duke football games

were usually played to a packed stadium and the Carolina game was always a sellout and a coveted ticket.

It was at these games in the late 50's and early 60's that The Blue Devil mascot was such a fun, scurrilous and magical figure to me and others. This was not the big-headed cartoonish mascot of today, but rather a masked, caped and devil-tailed demonic yet humanized mascot with a hellish sense of humor, great panache and mystery. And a pitchfork which he was not afraid to use.

Back then, the identity of each young man who was tapped to be the Blue Devil and thus would embody the spirit of all mischievous college students everywhere, was kept as a sacred secret. To be chosen as the BD was a high honor that was earned through rigorous challenge. Based on the video below I don't think that's the case today.

How was it that in the old days The Blue Devil would end up standing on the crossbar of the goal post during the game without anyone (or at least me, eight years old) seeing him get there? And how did he manage to steal the opposition's third stringer's helmet and walk around with it the whole game taunting the opposition's bench as he made his way around the stadium? That's balls.
That's the Blue Devil.

How was it that he could steal the clapper of The Victory Bell when Carolina won, so the UNC cheerleaders could not run around ringing it after the game? How did he shimmy up the flagpole? Where did the moxie come from that would lead him to stand regal on top of the press box, visible to the home crowd in a classic devil pose; upright with one hand on hip, pitchfork in the other, cape fluttering in the wind. In charge. Victorious always. Because even when on the wrong end of the score we had the Devil. Carolina had...well, a male sheep. Sure, the ram had big curving horns but hey, so did the devil. I never saw that ram anywhere but on the ground.

Duke is in the basketball Final Four this weekend and I will be cheering for them, even though I now follow the Tarheels as much as the Blue Devils. There is something about the passion of Roy Williams I like. Yet, I will still be angry after all these years of cartoon NCAA mascots that the Blue Devil had his balls cut off. Duke could have stuck with the old way.

If those hotshot smart as hell Duke students had half the cool they think they have, a few of 'em would rush that stupid big headed Devil during a pre-game this weekend, kidnap him the way the old schoolers used to kidnap the UNC Ram and have prepared an old-school masked Blue Devil for a replacement. That replacement would be decked out in a Duke blue spandex unitard with a cape that Dracula would envy, lined in white silk. Or maybe red silk. He would be resplendent in his pointy, custom-made toe-curled Ferragamo devil shoes and be armed with a sharpened pitchfork. And stuff a couple of socks down there.

Ready for action. With a big Gothic "D" on his chest. And big horns coming out of that head mask. And big balls, socks or not, enough so that he would end up swinging from the rafters of the arena, mocking the opponents and instilling some old-school Duke Pride in the faithful. Or maybe he would steal the basketball from the Ref during a time out. Or sit for a while behind the opposing bench making mean. Being a devil. Making Duke proud and a winner no matter the score.

GO DUKE! Bring home the Championship. But leave that big headed goofball of a devil in Indiana. He may as well be a devil with a blue dress on.

You call those things horns!?

WIMPS!

Top picture mid 60's; Devil with Marching Band 1929; Devil riding on GTO mid 60's; Devil with UNC ram early 30's; Devil with gothic D late 60's; wimp in bottom picture passes a Blue Devil in recent years

The Best Kind Of Music: The Kind You Like

2010-03-23T07:32:00.006-04:00

For this lucky dog Pandora Radio ranks right up there with Apple's iPod. Both are great "inventions" of all time for the music lover. Check it out to find artists similar to ones you like. Create your own radio station. Listen at work.

Awesome. Tell a friend.

The Big Vote

2010-03-20T08:04:00.013-04:00

They interview. You decide. After watching the interview compare your thoughts to those of Peggy Noonan of the WSJ.

ObamaCare up for a vote this Sunday, it's said. This is a very historic and important weekend for Americans. I am a lucky dog to have good health care through my employment, albeit a plan that takes a chunk of my wages. It could be worse. Much worse if I had to pay it all. And I suspect I might like this bill more if I were unemployed...except that the care part doesn't start right away. Just the taxes part.

While I believe our health care system needs some fixin', I'm not convinced the health bill in question does it in the most genuine way. I will admit that I fear an Entitlement Nation wherein there are more takers than givers (read tax payers). And I don't just mean welfare recipients.

{The Entitlement Nation link above takes you to a site called Five Boxes (the soap box, the mail box, the ballot box, the jury box and the ammo box). I'm more than a little suspect of sites that don't advise who is behind the endeavor--and this one doesn't-- and although I don't agree with all comments in the six part opinion, it strikes me as worth a read.}

"The American Republic will endure, until politicians realize they can bribe the people with their own money." --Alexis de Tocqueville

Pet Peeve. No! A Raging Pitbull Peeve!

2010-03-19T06:14:00.014-04:00

"Thank your calling Cheapskate & Partners. If you know your party's extension you may dial it at any time. For sales press one, for manufacturing press two..." blah, blah, blah etc.

1m30s later

"To access the company directory press one."

"1"

"Please spell your party's first and last name using the telephone keypad, followed by the pound key."

B-I-L-L-J-O-H-N-S-O-N #

"Sorry, no such name in the directory. Please check spelling and try again."

B-I-L-L-J-O-H-N-S-O-N #

"Sorry, blah, blah, blah..."

"0"

"Thank you for calling Cheapskate & Partners. If you know..."

1m30s later

"To access the company directory press one."

"1"

"Please spell...blah, blah, blah"

B-I-L-L-J-O-H-N-S-O-N #

"Sorry...blah, blah, blah"

B-I-L-L-F-U-C-K-I-N-G-J-O-H-N-S-O-N-T-H-E-P-R-E-S-I-D-E-N-T-O-F-T-H-I-S-C-R-A-P-A-S-S-C-O-M-P-A-N-Y-T-H-A-T-I-S-T-O-O-C-H-E-A-P-T-O-H-A-V-E-A-N-O-P-E-R-A-T-O-R #

"One moment, please and we will transfer your call."

30s later

"Thank you for calling Cheapskate & Partners...blah, blah, blah"

SLAM!

Epiphany: William Johnson, maybe?!

"Thank you for calling Cheapskate & Partners...blah, blah, blah

W-I-L-L-I-A-M-J-O-H-N-S-O-N #

"Sorry...blah, blah, blah"

SLAM!

Total Elapsed Time: Around 9 minutes. Ate two Reece's Cups to calm down. Made the next dial.

"Thank you for calling The Uppity Privately Owned High Tech Company. Many of your questions can be answered on our website at www dot... blah, blah, blah. For access to the company directory press 1."

1m 45s

"1"

"Thank you for calling The Uppity Privately Held Tech Company. We're changing the world one customer at a time. On March 21 TUPHTC will be holding a webinar to present...blah, blah, blah"

2m later

"To reach sales press 1, to reach HR press 2, to reach the lab press 3, to reach customer service press 4, to reach the executive directory press 5."

"5"

"Thank you for calling The Uppity Privately Held Tech Company. We're changing Bio Science with unsurpassed customer service and streamlined...blah, blah, blah."

SLAM!

Found the Vodka bottle in my desk. Took a swig to calm down. Made the next dial. My Kingdom to have an operator answer my call.

Think Green

2010-03-17T07:08:00.008-04:00

The river in Chicago will turn green today and in Spring Training camps throughout Arizona and Florida many teams will don their green baseball hats. We'll all look for that one green thing to wear today and many will leave work early to start the pub crawl.

The Empire State Building and the famed Opera House in Sidney will be awash in green light. A half million people in Dublin will line the parade route, in a country with only six million inhabitants. There will be parades! With bagpipes! And men in skirts!

May the Luck of the Irish be ours today.

More Reason To Be Tactical: Breakfast With Dave

2010-03-13T06:44:00.043-05:00

David Rosenberg is the Chief Economist and Strategist at Gluskin Sheff + Associates, a well respected Canadian money manager. "Rosie", as he is affectionately called by many, was formally the Chief North American Economist at Merrill Lynch. He left that firm about a year ago to return to his native Canada to be better able to tend to family matters.

His reports have always been keen on facts others ignore, insights that others do not draw out of data (or ignore) and prescient in their ability to forecast market moves. Rosie called the real estate meltdown and the ensuing economic reverberations. The guy's good. Real good.

Unfortunately, he is not very constructive on the world economy and thus is not bullish on the equities markets. Some call him a perma bear. His retort to that claim is that it is not his job to be bullish or bearish, but to deliver to clients and their advisors an objective view of the economic realities that affect markets--now and into the foreseeable future. And as I said, the guy is good. Real good. If you listen. This is from the March 11, 2010 daily Breakfast With Dave email:

"When we go back over the last 12 years to LTCM and the bailout that ensued, we have endured a 60% rally, followed by a 50% sell off, followed by a 100% rally, followed by a 60% sell off, followed by a 70% rally. The whole way along, the equity markets are basically flat for the buy and hold investor."

{Long Term Capital Management, a hedge fund run by a bunch of professors that blew up and, similarly to the credit default swap conundrum of recent years, sent shivers and financial negative ripples through the markets--LD}

Rosie draws conclusions as to what is causing the bloody volatility and what happens next, but I'll leave it to readers who are interested to log on to the GS+A website where it's possible to subscribe to a daily dose of economic reality compliments of David and to read previous daily observations. If you have money in the markets this would be a "must do" for you, in my opinion. If not him, somebody.

You don't have to believe everything Rosenberg espouses or forecasts. You don't have to act based on his observations. You don't have to radically change your modus operandi regarding your investments. Yet, I do think one does need to read objective commentary from respected economists that many astute institutional and individual investors rely upon. Then decide if your approach to the market should change.

It might not be Rosie; as they say, opinions are like--well, you know, everyone's got one. Especially economists. When it come to economics, DR is my go to guy. If nothing else he always reminds me to keep some cash on the sidelines and to be tactical.

Some obvious (to economists) but not so well reported observations from David's 3/11/10 email:

More than 5 million homeowners are behind on their mortgage.
There are over six million Americans who have been unemployed for at least six months, a record 40% of the ranks of the jobless.
Roughly 30% of manufacturing capacity is sitting idle.
Nearly 19 million residential housing units are vacant. This is about 15% of the housing stock.
The average American worker has seen his/her level of wealth plunge $100,000 over the last two years. {If they're lucky--LD}
One in six Americans are either unemployed or underemployed.
Commercial real estate values are down 30% over the past year.
Bank credit is contracting at an unprecedented 15% annual rate so far this year as lenders sit on a record $1.3 trillion of cash.
Unit labor costs are down an unprecedented 4.7% over the past year and what has replenished household coffers has been the federal government as transfer payments from Uncle Sam now make up a record 18% of personal income (and the Senate just passed yet another jobless benefit extension bill!).

Enough! My eyes are starting to bleed just thinking about all this and I'm sure you get the point.

Be tactical, unless a total return on $100 of $108.80 (.7333 annualized) over the 12 years noted above is OK with you, as many other than David Rosenberg believe we are in for more volatility in the coming years and a flat market at best when all is said and done over the next ten years. Bummer.

Bob Doll and David Rosenberg are both highly respected former Merrill Lynch "Big Guns. " Bob went to BlackRock when Merrill sold controlling interest in its investment arm (Merrill Lynch Investment Managers) to Black Rock. Bob's nick is "The Trillion Dollar Man", as he is responsible for the investment of over 1 trillion dollars. This video shows a a very interesting divergence of opinion about the state of the economy.

Be Tactical!

2010-03-11T07:03:00.011-05:00

Feeling financially funky and can't quite put your finger on why? Well, I mean because other than the big ugly mess our country is in and the paranoia we all seem to be experiencing about job stability.

Maybe it's this: Yesterday was the one year anniversary of the 2009 March stock market bottom famously noted as 666. Yikes. That's intraday. Your portfolio should be up but most investors are certainly not made whole.

And today is the ten year anniversary of the infamous Tech Bubble Burst. Remember sock puppets and Internet grocery shopping?

Have we as investors learned anything? After the tech bust Modern Portfolio Theory came back to the forefront as financial advisers went back to helping clients invest "by the book." After the recent meltdown--during which if your portfolio was beautifully allocated a la MPT it didn't help very much, if any--advisors and clients are moving toward "go anywhere, buy anything, turn on a dime, get defensive when called for" global tactical asset allocation mutual funds. This type of fund bested the classic indices by a good 10-15% during this meltdown. Down, yes, but less loss by a good measure.

(Above: 10 year growth of a well-respected global allocation/asset allocation fund)

It's sort of a MPT approach but with no set parameters. Sometimes it's right to have half a portfolio's assets in a combination of cash, gold and Forex plays (Yen/Dollar trades, for instance). That's what one of these funds held in the midst of the recent meltdown. They were down 25% in '08 rather than ~38%.

These funds may not be for you and I am not recommending them. Just stating the facts. But there is something about macro allocation and global diversification and a wide mandate by prospectus that appeals to me and has for years. I want the folks running my money to be able to go to cash in a big way or greatly pare down bonds or cut way back on US equities (blasphemous!) as they see fit. Because I like it when the annualized return number is higher than the standard deviation risk number over periods of time (especially like now) and many of these funds do just that.

The investment mantra to remember: Be Tactical!

In Rut?!

2010-03-07T10:21:00.028-05:00

Spring and summer approach and this boy's thoughts turn to baseball, the beach and "beach music". And sex, evidently. I can tell the season is really changing because my inner innate clock has me pulling out the beach music CDs to put in the car, looking for a baseball under the bed to hold and toss and I'm opening emails from pals that I know contain nekked pictures, instead of automatically deleting them. All that gets me thinking about my ill-spent youth. Maybe I'm in rut.

Not too long ago a buddy and I were having lunch and the conversation turned to (Carolina) Beach Music which is what we listened to during our ill-spent youth and to this day. We kept reeling off favorites. One of my bud's choices as an all-time great beach music song was the Jackie Gore song I Love Beach Music, an Embers Band staple.

My take on that pick is this: any song with the words "beach music" in the lyrics can't be a beach music classic. It's impossible. That song is about the genre, not of the genre. Can you imagine tooling down Route 66 in a pristine old Corvette on the way to Whatever You Find with the song I Love Road Trips blasting through the speakers? I didn't think so. This is a problem with much of the present day "beach music." A song cannot be written or exist specifically to be beach music and really succeed. The song must become beach music, often over time and always through some mysterious acceptance by a cadre of arbiters all through the South.

Beach Music (aka Shag Music) can be defined by a certain rhythm and mood. Can you dance in that swing/jitter bug permutation that is slowed-down and (frankly) more erotic, called The Shag, in which the male's vainglorious fancy footwork is akin to the peacock showing his feathers to the female. Another attribute of the genre involves lyrics emoting some natural human frailty, just like the blues. Here's the telltale sign of "beachability": does the song arouse...well, does the song arouse at least a some level, your sexual impulses.

Jackie's masterpiece may be just right for a Saturday in the summer at an all day Beach Music Fest in a Johnston County field a few miles off the interstate. But brothers and sisters, I'm talking about music for near midnight at some funky, smokey dance club in Sin City South (Myrtle Beach) or Atlantic Beach or Red's in Raleigh. The music, the style of dance and the hot, steamy beach venue is a ripe recipe for "gettin' in the mood" when you are young.

The music is called Shag Music after all, and like the term Rock and Roll, that means something. It's music derived from primordial race music that happened to catch on with white kids at the beach. One day I'll tell you what I know about an ol' boy from My Town nicknamed Chicken who many music historians name as the Father of bringing that race music to the beach. To Carolina Beach first by the way, a stalwart blue collar beach town, not Myrtle Beach.

But anyway, back to that lunch. My bud and I hit upon that "in the mood theme" and changed our focus to the best beach/shag songs to get a girl in the mood in the old days. I know that smacks of malevolence, but we were young. Our picks are featured below. In a "then and now" kind of way.

My choice is the sultry, almost exotic and hypnotic Stay, by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. Stay... A command or a plea? Either way sexy, psychologically intoxicating and compelling.

My bud's choice is Ms. Grace by The Thymes. "Satin and perfume and lace"... every Carolina Girl with any sensuality and ego at all will relate to you looking in her eyes and singing those words as you dance. Even thought it's a moderate up tempo song the next thing you know she'll be pulling you closer into a slow moving embrace. If she's loaded enough at the time she might even want you to call her Grace. Had that happen to me once. A long time ago. A long, long, long time ago. Oh God, I may regret this post.

Judge for yourself the legitimacy of my anthropological rant. The music and the dancing will speak for itself.

A New Food Treat

2010-03-02T06:41:00.003-05:00

As much as I love Krispy Kreem donuts I can't believe I'm just hearing about the KK burger, AKA the Luther Burger. It's true; named after its originator, Luther Vandross. This fine food is credited with saving a minor league baseball team by boosting attendance.

If this doesn't float your boat just heat a KK in the micro about 10-15 seconds and put a big scoop of vanilla ice cream in the hole. Sex on a plate.

Hi Paddy!

2010-02-19T20:27:00.000-05:00

Baseball Is Back!

2010-02-18T17:58:00.043-05:00

Did I mention that I love baseball? I cry every time I watch the ending of Field of Dreams. And I watch it often. When the Stupor Bowl is over it's officially my time of year. Many team's pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training today. The season begins!

As My Town's Roger Craig, (most remembered for managing the SF Giants and also a LA Dodger pitcher and a hapless early Met; their big winner and loser with 26 losses one season, many by one run) says..."Humm baby!", baseball is back.

Like so many kids born in the 50's baseball began with Dad teaching us the game. Then, it was Little League where for me, in my first year, Roger Craig's brother J.T. Craig, had to sit me and ol' Tommy Trent down under a shade tree at the North Durham Elementary "baseball field" at the end of tryouts. It was his job as coach to tell us that we were pretty good as first year Little League players, but not quite good enough.

So, if we were willing to shag bats during the games we could be on the team. We would be able to practice to get better and maybe even play in a game once in a while! There were going to be two Optimist teams that year--Optimists and Optimites-- so there was need for two shaggers. Two friggin' bat boys. We were humiliated but we both agreed (although Tommy doesn't remember the event as I do--he has blocked out being the bat boy).

That was a good first season in organized ball. The two Optimist teams ended up playing for the Durham Little League Championship. My team lost 1-0, even thought our pitcher chunked a one hitter. That's Little League.

This Lucky Dog played for Optimist teams through the second year of Pony League at which time my heart was substantially better than my skill. I missed the last year of LL and the first year of PL with a broken and then re-broken left foot. Upon my return everybody was better 'cept me. And some of the pitchers (like friend David Johnson who was our version of Randy Johnson) could throw heat, scare the hell out of you with a high, tight fastball and then on the next pitch throw a real curve. Put up another K. I just couldn't hit after a two year layoff. I was toast.

That was also about the time that rock music took hold of me and my love for baseball was temporarily put on hold. You just can't be a rock 'n roll drummer in the coolest kid band in Durham and also be a clean cut, crew cut ball player. Plus, as I said, I couldn't hit.

Fond memories and love for the game stayed with me, albeit hid in my psyche, for years. Through high school it was all drums all the time and for a year with a great blue-eyed soul and beach music band called The Four Winds & Band... lead singer and three brass players/backup singers (The Four Winds), along with guitarist, a honkin' Hammond B3 organ and me on drums ("and Band"). More on that sometime, and see the post on MLK.

College brought a little comeback to my following of the sport of baseball, as we had a pretty good team. The bleachers in spring were as good a place as any to swill beer out of a plastic cup.

Those college years and after graduation coincided with what I call The Polyester Years of baseball. The uniforms were ugly and garishly-colored polyester. Remember the Padres orange and brown uniforms or the Astros' horizontal color stripes or the Phillies' light blue road duds, their all-red uniforms and the Pirates' pill box baseball hats? God awful.

And the hair...sticking out from under those baseball hats everywhere. It was a good time to be semi comatose about the sport, although there certainly was some great talent and teams during that period.

Next Post: Baseball Is Back Part II
Coming home & The Durham Bulls
The gift of a baseball card stirs the juices

Baseball as Family Glue

Durham International Starball